#THE TASTE OF VICTORY AFTER SO MANY WEEKS FEELS GOOD

[dazzlerazz]

Thanks Hikari for being my damage dealer for the Claude fight and not even going below 3,000 healthy while the others went down multiple times and had trouble tanking damage

#razz plays ot2 #GET FUCKED CLAUDE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! #THE TASTE OF VICTORY AFTER SO MANY WEEKS FEELS GOOD #DEFEAT TASTES BITTER DON'T IT CLAUDE #HEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHE #I feel better now

[galacticgraffiti]

✿⋅ Oh, to be Alone with You ⋅✿

NSFW ⋆ 18+ ⋆ Minors DNI

Rating: Explicit Wordcount: 2.6k Descriptors: I try my best to write inclusively. Reader uses she/her pronouns and is mentioned in her physicality but not described in detail. If anything escaped me, please let me know! Sorry I couldn't make this more gender neutral, but since this fic is a gift to @naariel I thought I'd use her pronouns. Warnings: dirty daydreams, yearning, lusting after someone, male masturbation, dirty talk, fantasy of PiV sex within the daydream, bath sex, this is written from Halsin's POV

⋆⋅ Inspired by this insane artwork by @naariel ⋅⋆

Author's note: I've been pondering, rotating and marinating this artwork in my mind for WEEKS. It haunts me in the best possible way and I am so happy Naariel gave me permission to reference her art! If you are not already following her, you definitely should - her skill and talent are infinite.

Masterlist ⋆ If you prefer AO3

───── ⋆⋅✿⋅⋆ ─────

Oh, to be Alone with You

Halsin sighs when he finally sits down, long limbs sprawling on the too-small chair that can barely contain him.

Chairs. What superfluous oddities, where a big tree stump might have sufficed. If one has to make them at all, why not at least make them comfortable? Why not sit in the meadows, why not find a place to lay where the sun has warmed a rock that has been washed and polished by the rain? But no, the rules of the city demand he be contained within four walls instead of roaming free, they demand he bathe in a wooden tub instead of out in the wilds, they demand he wear clothes and be polite to people even as they trample the Oak Father’s creations beneath their boots without even stopping to look and enjoy nature’s gifts.

Halsin shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the oncoming headache. It has been a long day and he is so tired. A long week. A long few weeks, if he is being honest with himself. In all these centuries, times have been- well-  rough, to say the least. But whatever haunts the Sword Coast now… it’s different. Bigger than the invasions of Goblins across the land, bigger than the Shadow druids, bigger even than the Shadow Curse that has occupied Halsin’s every waking hour for nigh on one hundred years.

At least, Thaniel and Oliver have been reunited, some life returning to the lands as it always should have been. A victory, chased for so long, tasting sweet only for a moment before the stale urgency of the matter at hand had seeped back into Halsin’s mind: Mindflayers infecting innocents, magic-infused tadpoles, an Elder Brain… There are too many battles to be fought, and not one of them to be won.

Halsin presses his lips together and tries to banish the dark thoughts from his mind. There are some good things that have come out of this: They have not lost a fight yet, and his newfound companions are… stimulating, to say the least. Fighting alongside them has been a joy and a privilege - watching their blades sear, their magic erupt, their arrows pierce their targets as the bear Halsin rips through flesh and bone. The fighting is necessary, and his companions are more skilled than he could have ever wished for. This day may have been hard, but it was successful nonetheless, and now he is here, freshly bathed and ready to find some rest for the night. If only it could be under the stars, far outside the city walls, he would almost call himself happy. Instead, he must bed down alone, encased by  too many walls and a too-small bed frame.

Halsin misses the smell of grass that has not been trampled by hundreds of boot-clad feet, he misses the feeling of bark against his fur, he misses his wildshape and trodding through calm forests instead of bloodied battlefields. He misses air that is crisp and clean and doesn't smell of artificially molten metals. He misses the Grove, he misses Thaniel and he misses the woods. The city has been forsaken by Silvanus, and even if this place is a small oasis of nature, it is not the same as being out among the Oak Father’s creations.

He cracks his neck, his hair tickling his collarbones. Halsin curses quietly to himself, pushing a curl behind his ear. He needs to cut his hair - it’s getting too long. And he needs to braid it again, his plaits are all out of sorts. It might be a hassle to do it without a mirror- but maybe he could ask-

No.

Shaking his head as if to will the thought away, he slumps into the discomfort of the chair a little more.

No, he shouldn't ask her anything. Nothing that would involve her hands on him, at least. Certainly not her fingers buried in his hair, tugging softly, her voice gently commanding that he tilt his head a different way. He can’t ask for that. It would only lead to him asking for more:

More of her hands on him, more of her skin against his, more than innocent touches and whispered goodnights across the campfire. He would ask for everything: To bury himself inside her until the world fades away, to devour her until she is slick with sweat from the pleasure he brings her. To be the keeper of her heart, just as he yearns for her to be the keeper of his.

Halsin can feel the familiar tightness in his back as the golden shimmer of his wildshape travels up to his shoulder blades. One thought of her, and already the bear stirs.

He remembers everything that happened today, even as he tries so hard to think of something else:

He remembers the way she smells, of sweet berries, blood and leather. He remembers her looking up at him, as her fingers clutch her weapon tightly. He remembers the fire in her eyes after the slaughter, the glow in her cheeks when she turned around to look at him and found only the bear. He remembers how she smiled at him, even after all that violence, a smile like the sinking sun, bloodied and red, but more beautiful than he could ever have dreamed up.

And as the day progressed: Her arm bumping into his, her head tilting up when she asked him a question and wanted to read his expression. How her hands slipped around him to reach for some food at the campfire earlier when they rested. Her sweet breath on his face and a mumbled excuse when she walked into him, still drowsy with sleep. And all Halsin wanted to do was pull her into his lap and bury his nose in the crook of her neck and forget about the world, forget about everyone watching, and have her, right then, in that moment. Have her all to himself, make her his very own. To feel her around him, to show her the depth of his affection, the desperation of his desire, the magnitude of his commitment.

All he wanted in that moment - all he still wants - is to touch her, to feel her in ways that he cannot ask for because he is scared she will not want the same thing he does. Halsin wants to lick the sweat off her skin, he wants to be buried between her thighs whenever they can steal away, even for a few minutes, he wants her taste on his tongue when he fights, and to wrap himself around her when they sleep.

The force of his own thoughts makes Halsin shudder, glowing desire stirring deep in his belly.

Her tongue in his mouth, his hands on her skin: How soft she would be against him. How wonderful to hear her voice break when she cries out for him, how she would taste if he could lick her off his fingers, the honey of her thighs, the salt of her sweat. He would give anything to know the expression on her face when she is lost to mindless bliss- he would give everything to know that he is the cause of it.

A low moan escapes his throat then, and Halsin presses his lips together when his mind returns from memory and sweet imagination to this house in the midst of a bustling city. This is not nature, where he can do what pleases him when it pleases him. No, the city - ‘civilisation’ as they call it - comes with rules, expectations, limitations.

He is in someone else’s home, exhausted from the day, the blood barely washed off his skin. And yet, all he can think about is… her. All he can feel is the constriction of his clothing, the confinement of leather where he longs to be touched. He wants to shed like the bear sheds his fur after the winter, he wants to feel free again.

Halsin hums, breathing deeply, willing away the golden sparks of his wildshape that dance along his fingertips. He listens intently, fingers dancing across his thighs, drumming an impatient rhythm.

Nothing in the house stirs. Maybe they are all gone still, running their errands, finding bath houses, visiting old friends and merchants they used to know before they return here for a long night’s rest. Maybe Halsin can have a small pocket of time to himself. Time to dream himself away, to give in to the desire he has harboured for so long.

Maybe… he could use this opportunity to release some of that tension that has settled deep in his belly. Refocus his attention. Maybe it’ll be for the best- not to think of her constantly anymore, not of her smell, or the colour of her eyes, of the way her fingers linger on his for a moment too long whenever they touch, or how much he wished they could have bathed together when he sank into the tub earlier that night.

The city has many downsides, but baths are one of the few things to enjoy. Hot springs are wonderful, but few and far between. Nature provides: The bear does not mind the coldness of a stream in the woods, or the iciness of a mountain lake. But there is nothing like a steaming bath to help prevent the sore ache that settles in his bones after a fight.

If only it was acceptable to ask her if she would join him. If only it had been her hands washing dirt and grime and blood from his skin, brushing his hair, kneading tired muscles, her hands much smaller than his, but strong and determined. Loving.

Halsin lets his head fall back, spine cracking as he settles in the small, uncomfortable chair, spreading his legs to cup his hardening cock. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine it…

She glistens in the dim light, thin streams of water trickling down her skin when she emerges from the bath, her lashes stuck together as she beams at him.

“Mhh, we should have done this ages ago!”

“I could not agree more, my heart.” Halsin loves seeing her like this. She looks happy, like she has not a care in the world.

She crawls up into his lap, settling on him, her thighs bracketing his. Her hands run across his chest, lathering him in soap that smells of lavender and thyme. Halsin’s heart is beating in his throat when she leans in to kiss his collarbone, her lips soft, her hair smelling of smoke and flowers as it always does.

Desire surges inside him, crackling like lightning in his veins, and he sends the bear away, far away. This is a moment he wants for himself: Skin against skin, tongues exploring, hands intertwined. This is no place for fangs and claws, not tonight. Halsin unlaces his trousers with steady fingers, though even those few seconds seem unbearable to him. When his hand finally wraps around his cock, he breathes a sigh of relief, only to feel dissatisfied moments after. He wants her hands, her eyes on him, her voice dripping with lust. For now, his imagination will have to do.

He dreams himself back to the bath, thinking of all he could have had, if he had only had the courage to ask.

Her skin is burning hot against his, her fingers leave a flaming trail wherever she touches him.

“Is this alright, my love?” Her voice is full of concern and affection, as it always is when she asks about his comfort and well-being.

“More than alright.” Halsin’s breaths grow shaky when she moves her hips, shallowly grinding down against him. “Gods, I want to-”

“Mhhm?” There is a curious twinkle in her eye. “What is it you want? Tell me. I’m sure I could make your dreams come true.”

Halsin shifts when the wooden backing of the chair digs into his back as he bucks his hips, fucking into his hand that is wrapped around his cock - a poor substitution for what - for who - he really wants.

A growl rings out in the empty room when he closes his eyes and imagines her again.

Her thighs look so lovely, spread wide so he can fit between them. She smells of the bath salts and of herself, and her voice talks to him through the thick fog of his desire.

“I know what you want, don’t I, bear? I’ll take such good care of you if you let me. I’ll make sure you don’t even have to ask for it. I’ll let you taste me, whenever you want- wherever you want. I’ll help you focus- you can focus on me, can’t you? There you go…”

Halsin is panting, his hand moving faster.

She feels good, so good when she sinks down on him, wet with arousal and so willing to take him.

“You, little flower, are the jewel of nature’s creation,” he mumbles. “You are all I could ever want and more. I want to taste you on my tongue, always- for there to never be a day where I won’t know the way you drip for me- for you to never go a day without being satisfied, without feeling loved and cared for. Your happiness is all I want- your ecstasy all I desire. Let me take care of you.”

She moans, her head falling back as she starts to roll her hips, taking him deeper and deeper with each stroke.

“I’ll take care of you as you do of me,” she whispers. “I’ll make sure to provide for you all you could ever need or want. You give and give, let me give you everything I am in return. Be selfish, bear. Take what you want, swallow me whole, devour me without worrying whether it’s too much. I want you to. Mark me- make me yours. Tell the whole world I belong to you, whichever way you desire.”

Her movements are desperate now, her words only sighs and moans, breathless as she buries her head against his shoulder. Halsin inhales the scent of her hair, sinks into her words as the fog of lust that has settled on his brain grows thicker and heavier, until there is not a thought left on his mind but her.

“Halsin-” Gods, his name sounds so sweet off her tongue. “Halsin, I want you to fill me. Please- please, I want to feel full with you, today and every day you’ll fucking let me. I want to fight knowing you are still dripping down my thighs, I want to kiss you under the stars and know I’ll never be without you again.”

The curses that are falling from his lips are ungodly, but Halsin does not care. He is desperate now, mouth open as he calls her name and thinks of the words he wishes he could hear her say.

“Come for me, bear. Come inside me, lay claim to me as only you ever could- f-fuck- make me yours- please- Halsin, I’m yours, I’m yours and yours and yours, as long as you’ll have me- forever if you want to-”

With a cry of her name on his lips, Halsin gives in to pleasure and lets himself be overtaken by a wave of bliss. His thighs tremble as he spills over his hand, sticky warmth dripping from his fingers. He does not open his eyes. Not yet. He wants to stay in the fantasy just a moment longer.

“Halsin, I-”

His eyes open, blood rushing to his cheeks as he returns to the real world and finds her standing in the doorway.

I'm going fucking feral. Running into the woods hoping to find him there, who's with me -

@purgetrooperfox @ashotofspotchka @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @ulchabhangorm @queen--kenobi @samspenandsword @rescuethewretched @pinkiemme @baba-fett @witchklng @ladykatakuri @certified-anakinfucker @fanfiction-i-llike @voidinfernal @foxferret02 @rosieofcorona @savagemickey03 @perseny @margoisthemoon2 @shiiunn @saucyhedgehog @tonysoffice @pupshr00m @supercalifragilisticprincess @palpipeen @silly-gooseastarion @mila-bee @shit-i-say-throughout-the-day @idkwhatsgoingonwithme @aeryntheofficial @jekasha @gub @nogitsune-the @solarrexplosion @hexqueensupreme @unofficialavenger90 @frankiesghost @curtaincaramba

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#bg3 #halsin #halsin x reader #in some capacity i suppose #baldur's gate #baldurs gate 3 #halsin bg3 #nsft #halsin x f!reader #gala writes

[baronetcoins]

I feel like I win when I lose—Director's Commentary

In what is rapidly becoming a tradition of mine, I went on a research Bender for my Yuletide fic and there are so many details I want to point out and discuss—so I will. This year I wrote I feel like I win when I lose for @avengingmariner and I did loose my mind over it, but in a fun way. Join me in my descent into madness below the cut.

My brief was "you must put my man laurence in A Situation" and I somehow landed on the core nugget of "Napoleon finds Laurence in his darkest hour, instead of Tharkay"—mostly because NGL I haven't read further in this series than Victory of Eagles. I'm working on it, just not there yet.

From that point I just sort of... started writing and felt out where the story wanted to go, and then I kept falling into research holes. Here are some of the fun pieces of information I learned in rough order of where they popped up in the fic.

There was chicken set aside from the dinner he was supposed to have had hours ago, before an urgent missive had pulled him away—a simple roast bird, born out from what local provisions had been found

The WEEK I was working on this, Max Miller of Tasting History put out a video on Napoleon. I wasn't able to work in a lot of detail about the food here just because I couldn't make it flow into what I was writing, but there's so much I wish I could have talked about. The weird thing with chicken! Apocryphal stories about how dishes got their names! His drinking habits! The inherent whatever of breaking bread with somebody who's supposed to be your enemy! Now that I'm writing this paragraph I feel like I need to write another fic about food.

And then I Made chicken marengo the week after because I was curious. It was fine?

le mistral noir

Now this bit owes its thanks to Kangoo, my resident French correspondent. I was talking to him about what could be a nickname the French soldiers used for Temeraire, and he suggested "le mistral" which he described as "(very cold and often violent wind that blows into france from great britain, known for cleaning the sky of clouds and also wrecking your shit) (also the name of a fighter plane)" and I went "oh, that's Perfect". And I wanted to be able to explain that reference. Because it's So Good.

He blinked around at the courtyard of brick building before being hurried just as swiftly into a fine bedchamber where he was given a cold supper and the opportunity to wash himself. With little else to do, he fell into another restless sleep.

This was a fun bit of gamesmanship to think out—where would Napoleon want to set the treaty signing in order to send a message? And in order to think about that, I had to learn more about how the government of Britain worked in this timeframe (polisci major hat incoming).

In the US, authority to make treaties is vested in the executive branch, but the legislative branch has to ratify them. I did not know how that worked for the British, because their system mystefies me to this day. Luckily, I found this paper which explains how it worked in 1938, and there isn't much reason to expect it to have changed in that period, so the answer is "at least in theory, the authority rests with the Crown".

Based on that, I figured he'd want to make a point by holding it in a royal building as opposed to Westminster, so I went with St. James' palace which has been used for state stuff forever. Unfortunately, the details for the interior of St. James' are scarce. I was looking at 1860s watercolors to try and squint out a layout.

It was a dress uniform of aviator green, with gold braid and buttons as well as twin epaulettes. He dropped it as if it were a hot coal.

This was perhaps my longest diversion. I'm not intimately familiar with the internal culture of the military <understatement, but I knew having Laurence be present in any form would be read as a huge statement. So what kind of statement would you want to make? Ultimately I went with "the biggest 'fuck you' possible", so Laurence in a British aviator's uniform.

Then there was the question of fringe or no fringe. Which didn't even make it into the fic, but was an interesting diversion. You see, "captain" is a term that connotes a different level of authority in the Army vs the Navy. NATO has a standard rank scale I was able to squint at here, as it tries to standardize across branches and countries. Captain in the British Army is an OF-2 rank, but Captain in the British Navy is an OF-5 rank. What does it represent in those terms in the Arial Corps? I have no idea! This impacts nothing here other than if one or both epaulettes would have fringe on them.

He wandered the hallways, passing French soldiers who saluted him and English dignitaries who ignored him or glared at him in turn. In desperation he returned to seek refuge in the room he’d been left last.

The medal Laurence gets is that of the Légion d'honneur, and nominally military personnel in uniform are supposed to salute other uniformed personnel wearing it, regardless of ranks involved. That was too good of a detail not to gesture at.

The Wikipedia article

I picked Jacques-Louis David entirely because he's my favorite artist of this time period and location, though the fact he did official work for Napoleon was a bonus. I'm very interested in the uses of these really formalized displays of image-crafting as used for propaganda, and also it's just fun to think about. Spent ages looking at Wikipedia too to get the formatting and the style of writing right, which I think I did.

The Title

Really, it just made me laugh, so it had to stay. I mean the song is also fitting and I think it's the sentiment I wanted to gesture at emotionally, but it is also funny,

#my writing #talking about words #temeraire #rambling #whoo BOY that one got away from me

[daily-coral-reblogging]

I completed @coral-nerd's farmer questionnaire. Farmer OC info dumps below the cut.

Emily (she/her)

How does your farmer feel about:

Farming: Farming is very therapeutic once she gets comfortable with it. At first she’s afraid her depression will cause her to lapse in care for the crops and for them to die as a result. This is not completely inaccurate as especially bad depression slumps can make her lapse on care. However it does become pretty routine for her and she doesn’t suffer too many casualties. Once she’s able to get her hands on some sprinklers she feels much more comfortable keeping up with the non-daily tasks like weeding and treating for disease.

Mining: Emily loves Mining. She finds a lot of comfort in the caves. She had always struggled with staying fit and has found mining to be the best work-out routine she’s ever had. While nothing else ever seemed to stick, the breaking down and hauling of materials from the mine makes her muscles burn and her clothes become soaked with sweat but she ends up almost always having fun the entire time she does it. Emily enjoys the mines as a napping location and spends a lot of time there especially when her social battery is on low.

Foraging: This is the task that gets Emily moving around the island more than anything else. She goes foraging around once a week and finds the quiet and travel relaxing. 

Catching: Emily does not enjoy bug catching. While she doesn’t necessarily find bugs gross she really doesn’t like running around all day and finds it rather unnecessary. Being able to complete the museum collection is about all that gets her motivated to attempt it at all. She finds it frustrating when bugs frequently get away from her.

Fishing: This is one of Emily’s favorite activities, especially when she can post up under the shade of a tree. The trance-like nature of fishing is something that helps her recover some spoons and getting to cook up a fresh dinner out of it is always something she’s happy to do.

Ranching: Emily falls in love with ranching. Taking care of her animals gets her out of bed and feeling good about life more than anything else. She takes the details of her animal care very seriously holding their welfare, diet, and health above her own. She has a special interest in genetics and starts breeding projects on her farm.

Combat: Emily feels uncomfortable with the idea at first but it gives her an absolute rush. After the first time she’s hooked. Being engaged with something that so immediately demands her attention can break her out of what otherwise could be slumps or spirals. She’s also pretty darn good at it as well. She’s very happily a member of the Band of Smiles. Taking on missions to deal with the monster populations and protect others gives her a sense of purpose.

Diving: Emily refuses to dive. She went ahead and tried it once and nearly came out with a panic attack. The weight of the water pushing in on her, the extra effort to breathe against that pressure made her feel like the whole ocean was threatening to destroy her. She will go ahead and stay on the beach.

Interacting with the Islanders: Emily does crave community, bonds, and togetherness but does not enjoy meeting new people. Luckily Alice and Suki are some more familiar faces. She honestly avoids most social interaction but she made a promise to herself on not isolating and making an effort via delivering every single resident flowers for their birthday. She is terribly awkward at this and definitely still isolates. Overtime some of the townies are able to get closer to her.

Other:

What is their decor style? Emily has never been able to get motivated when it comes to decorating, her home matches herself by being somewhat depressing. This is definitely something she needs a positive influence on her life for.

Who's their love interest? TBD

What's their favorite thing to grow? She likes to grow things that she herself will eat most. Not every crop out there suits her tastes and the victory of growing them feels less tangible when she doesn’t get to experience some of the end product in a meal.

What's their favorite animal? Her favorite livestock animal is cows.

Bonus! What do you associate with your farmer in these categories:

Color: Orange

Season: Fall

Metal: Gold

Indy (they/he)

How does your farmer feel about:

Farming: Indy moved to Coral Island chiefly for the intent of growing, and selling, marijuana. At first they are reluctant on the whole vegetable gardening part of things but that does definitely help them prepare the soil and earn some money to start with. They do enjoy tending plants though and quickly get over any misgivings about not moving to Coral Island to grow food. Even when they are able to start cultivating their intended crop they continue growing rotating crops for the soil health, for the fresh food, and to keep supplying Sam.

Mining: Indy feels relatively indifferent to mining. The work doesn’t really bother them but they do enjoy getting to discover new things from the geodes found mining.

Foraging: Indy enjoys foraging a lot. They prefer it to farming and being in nature is something he values a lot.

Catching: Indy keeps their net on them at all times. They enjoy watching insects and springing after them. Indy however is very eco-concious and only begins catching regularly after consulting Eleanor on if any populations need to be protected and if any need managing and removal. They enjoy cooking with insects and raising crickets for cooking becomes a staple for them.

Fishing: Indy must be in a particular mood to enjoy fishing. Typically fishing feels much too boring and they end up struggling with under-stimulation. When they are feeling chill and wanting to relax in the sand though it’s nice to do it on the side. In most scenarios they prefer relaxing in the forest though.

Ranching: Indy enjoys ranching but gets into it mostly as a way to supplement his growing. To further offset their ecological impact of operations their main motive is actually obtaining manure on the farm so they can make a fairly closed loop system and don’t have to import fertilizer nearly so much.

Combat: Indy profusely refuses to participate in combat. They will bring a dagger into the mines since there’s insistence they must have some form of weapon but they very seldom use it. If for whatever reason they need monster parts they buy off of Mark or Kira instead. They do still need access to deeper levels of the mine though so they make slow progress and habituate the monsters to their presence instead. They are uncomfortable with the idea of coming into their home and not treating them with respect. They understand the need for culls to happen though but they leave that to those who want to fight.

Diving: Indy takes diving as one of their most important tasks. Being able to heal nature in such a visible way is something they wouldn’t trade for the world. They honestly let the whole farming thing fall to the wayside when given a task like this.

Interacting with the Islanders: Indy, like everyone, needs some time to themself and time with others. Indy is fairly outgoing in whatever interactions they find themself in but don’t do a lot of intentional connection making. Prone to periods of frequently being seen in social hotspots and periods of not being seen at all.

Other:

What is their decor style? Indy can be inconsistent with it. Different decor items seem to be from different themes. Sometimes they decide to decorate with a specific vision but usually it’s just a mishmash of anything they like with comfy places to sit or tuck away being a must.

Who's their love interest? TBD

What's their favorite thing to grow? Their specialty is marijuana. 

What's their favorite animal? They like chickens the most.

Bonus! What do you associate with your farmer in these categories:

Color: Green

Season: Summer

Metal: Bronze

#coral island: oc #oc: emily #oc: indy #coral island #coral-nerd #this was fun to fill out #drug mention #depression mention #not a reblog

[stillthe1]

you KNOW it's going to be 8 and 18 combined for charlos. mwah. love ya ❤️

from these prompts, ask whatever u want and I'll do it 🩷🩷🩷

did it. hope YOU ARE HAPPY. 1500k of charlos. nsfw.

It was Carlos’ home race, and he had won. Fuckin’ finally, right?

The streets of Barcelona were alive, filled with people still celebrating the win from Barça, even though it had been weeks already. There were people dressed with Ferrari colors, too, and that made his heart stutter on his chest. A beautiful reminder.

He did it, won in Spain and took the glory. Max had to retire from the race, and Carlos saw his chance. Montmeló had always been bittersweet for him, the pressure almost creating claws across his shoulders. 

It makes him think of Charles. As anything does these days. Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, and what was that name? Who named their kid like that?

Well, in Carlos' head it makes sense. They knew they were naming a legend, il predestinato, the apple of everyone’s eyes or however the saying goes. The thing is, Carlos has won, he’s drunk and, predictably, he’s thinking about Charles.

It’s not weird, he tells himself, it’s not weird at all. Charles just has something about him that keeps everyone hooked, from higher-ups to their fellow drivers, to the fans to every girl that stumbles onto his life. 

It’s not jealousy, he does not need that type of devotion, does not need to have everyone at his beck and call. But, would it be that bad if it was Charles? 

Would it make it better if he could kiss Charles after one of the monegasque’s wins, and drink the glory from his lips? 

Sometimes Charles has the annoying ability to appear when you think about him, like that goddamned Bloody Mary. It’s scary, but an old joke across the drivers. 

Suddenly, there’s a french-accented voice whispering in his ear, and he has to steel himself. Que cabronazo, joder. He should come with a warning level – or many, really – “caution, sneaky little shit that enjoys hiding behind his good boy persona! don’t fall for it! sponsored by Max Verstappen and the inchident!”

“Hello, Carlitos. Havin’ some fun, huh?” Charles’ mocking tone could be heard from fucking Monaco itself, and ugh. Imbécil. “How does victory taste? Especially since it’s your own home race…”

Like you. Let me taste you too–

Fuck, the alcohol his friends had thrown into his hands (and mouth) had no registered ‘til now, and his tongue feels loosened enough to make him shudder. Maybe it will all unravel here.

He stabs his drink with the red straw, because of fucking course. Everything is red now, the straw, the blinding lights dancing across the club, Charles’ lips. The red string that had tied them from Sauber and McLaren into the incessant torture of Ferrari, too.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, cariño?” He smirks, voice dripping with a sickly sweet condescending tone. Carlos doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but he cannot stop his train of thought, even though it’s mean as fuck. “It has never happened to you, no? Keep chasing it, Charlie.”

He leaves Charles with that, walking away from him. It’s his night, his glory and his moment. And if he moves his hips slowly to the music while walking to the other side of the room, well, no one could blame him.

Funnily enough, he finds Lando, Max and Daniel drinking the night away. 

They are always the funniest trio. Lando who is always in his own world, showing off his new mixes to anyone that ever hints to it, and the so-called Maxiel duo (sue him, it’s funny) are constantly one upping each other at bursting each other’s personal bubble.

Carlos still doesn’t know if they’re dating, or if it’s just a bromance, or a bit of both? 

Something is going on with them, either way. The way Max’s eyes light up around Daniel is enough to sell the deal, and the smile Daniel saves for Max, soft around the edges, eyes shining like the prettiest stone, is enough for half of the paddock to collectively say “they’re dating, for fucking sure”, but they’ll never know.

“Carlitoooosss! Hi, hello mate!” The inimitable Aussie accent shakes him from his reverie, and he focuses on the drink Lando is pushing on his hands. 

The glass is cold, colder than any beer he has had for the past hours, and it calms him. He sniffs it, because Lando is young and way too trusting for his own good, and drinks the entire thing as soon as he smells the Jäger and Redbull combo. 

This is his night, goddamnit. No monegasque will ruin it with their pretty eyes, pretty mouth, pretty everything. No, nuh-huh. He will not think about him again.

As he opens his mouth to respond to Daniel’s enthusiastic greeting, a hand wraps around his wrist and tugs him strongly and surely towards the bathrooms. He can see Daniel’s bewildered stare, Lando’s scheming smile, and Max. Max who just mouths “good luck” to him.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck—

“Charles, what the fuck?

⋆

“What do you mean “what the fuck”, Carlitos? You really thought you could say that to me and leave me behind? For whom, the rejects trio? Oh fucking no, Carlos!” He can feel the anger build inside of him again, fueling him like it has always had. “You deserve the win, Carlos. But don’t ever say that to me, or I'll shut you the fuck up.”

Carlos looks at him with his patented confused stare, and it makes Charles want to scream. Throw something at him, maybe. He looks around the bathrooms, tries to find something to smack the life out of the spanish motherfucker–

“Oh, so you’ll shut me up? You? Fragile Leclerc? Or is that just what you play to the media, huh?” Carlos' voice is back to the condescending tone that made Charles want to punch him, kick him in the dick, and maybe kiss him a little. Fuck. “Poor Charlie, am I right? Our pathetic il predestinato!”

Charles can’t help it, cannot keep it in the back of his throat, hidden from Carlos, hidden from Ferrari, hidden from the world–

Charles fucking whimpers. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Fucking hell, out of all the places in the world, out of all the people in the paddock.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up.” His voice shakes, and he does too. He doesn’t know if it’s the humiliation, or the fact that it's Carlos. Who’s sweaty, with his fucking pretty face looking at him intently, and his prince hair sticking out in all different directions.

“Please, just shut up, Carlos.”

It comes out as a plea, more than an ask. And Charles wants to run, hide from Carlos and everyone that knows him. Wants to curl up inside a bathroom cubicle and find a bit of balance. 

Carlos never spoke back, ever. This wasn’t Charles’ cruelest work, but it seemed that with his win, he finally had something to hold above his head.

“Make me.”

And, what? 

“I said make me, Charlie. C’mon. What do you wanna do, huh? Puch me? Break my nose a bit? Leave your mark over my bod–” 

Charles doesn’t let him finish and kisses him. Right on the lips that have been torturing for years, even before Ferrari cursed them together. Charles kisses him, swallows the words out of Carlos’ lips and feels the victory flow through his veins again.

Carlos’ hands end up on his neck, holding him in place, and he can’t help but moan. Holy fuck, this was better than his dreams. The hands on his neck tighten as Carlos bites Charles’ bottom lip, taking a bit of distance. His brown eyes pierce right through the haze on Charles’ mind, and he shudders. 

Carlos is so fucking pretty. Feeling his nose across his own cheek makes Charles whimper, and he tries to break the hold on his neck, but all it does is tighten more and more. He feels lightheaded, his eyes closed and mouth open. 

“Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. Please.” 

He begs, he shakes and struggles until Carlos obeys. Their lips meet again, and it’s better, way fucking better. It’s hot, slick and one of Carlos’ hands moves slowly from his neck to press down on Charles’ neglected cock.

Charles breaks the kiss, startled and horny as fuck.

“Carlos! Fffucking hell, oh my god.” His voice comes out as whimpers, and his hands try to find somewhere to hold onto. Involuntarily, they stop at Carlos' hair, and he tugs at it just to see Carlos moan against his ear. “Please, Carlos…”

Carlos smirks again, looking right at his eyes.  

“What if I give you a blowjob? Would you like that, cariño?” Charles’ breath stops, and the bathroom fades into the background. Holy fuck, he’s nodding before he thinks it through. “You could say it’s a favor. So that Monaco doesn’t sting that hard, pretty boy.”

Carlos tightens his hold on both his neck and his cock, and Charles' vision almost whites out. He’s not getting out of this alive.

#for estie baby. #charlos #beware: charlos being bitches to each other #fueled by the one n only #ficlet #sashiewrites.jpg

[standbyric]

[PART I]

04: Take a Break

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x Female!Driver OC x Pierre Gasly Premise: Formula One, Female Racing Driver Rating: 18+; Mature themes (explicit language, death, trauma innuendos, motorsport accident, mentions of sex) Timeline: Back and forth Word Count: 5k Sum: Perth break and unexpected coincidence.

⬅️ Chapter 03 | MASTERLIST | Chapter 05 ➡️

CAME the two much-needed weeks’ break.

After securing double podiums on the doubleheader race weekends, the trip back to Perth tasted so much sweeter than honey for the Australian Honey-badger.

It was just after his compulsory over-the-break workout—well, Michael was the one who deemed it compulsory, the honey-badger was reluctant, but yeah, same shit. Like always with his shenanigan, this time Daniel leapt over the fence of his ranch in the name of parkour—because walking through the gate was for the weak, he argued—as he darted in giant steps into the house, all the way to the living room. 

Stripping off his sweaty oversized tank top before hooping it to the laundry basket, screaming a silent ‘hell, yeah! C’mon!’, complete with the victory air pumps, as he threw himself over the sofa in one loud poof.

“Gross.” Scotty James croaked at the sight of his half-naked friend sprawled over the sofa. The pro snowboarder had joined the man-child badger on his workout session. And only now, he’d begun wondering why he thought it was a good idea and said yes. Michael then followed, closing the door behind him. The two friends had chosen to be civilised and used the backdoor.

Daniel ignored the prudishness of his buddies as he took his iPad out, getting himself comfortable on the sofa. 

With one hand scrolling through Youtube, his other free hand grabbed an open bag of chips he found lying on the coffee table—must’ve been his sister’s leftover, he thought—and started munching casually.

That earned him a disapproving look from Michael.

“What? It’s half a bag, Mike, and look—less salt,” he growled in between his chomping.

Michael kept his silence, only squinting his eyes at the badger before turning away with a defeated sigh. He took the chair on the round dining table next to Scotty, deciding that the sofa sloshed with Daniel’s sweat was a no-no to sit.

Daniel’s scrolling stopped as he spotted a video from Audi’s channel with a thumbnail of Zea sporting a pair of glasses, pen in hand, looking serious.

“Didn’t know she wears glasses?” Daniel muttered, finger already pressing the video.

The video began with a shaky frame zooming out from Zea’s face. She looked extra sharp reading god-knows-what, finger continuously twirling her pen—Daniel swore she looked like one of those kick-ass eggheads from Fast & Furious—while running something that appeared hella complicated on the computer.

“Go away, Will. I’m trying to be productive here.” Her voice collided with the rapid sound of typing from the keyboard.

Must be Will Stevens…her teammate, Daniel thought.

“And how many times have I told you to stop zooming in; I can see it from the lens—Oh my God, you still suck at taking videos.” Zea stopped her typing, looking straight at the camera. “That’s gonna be another drunken footage. Don’t you feel bad for Jax? He needs to work the extra hours having to edit every footage you take. Give the man a break, mate.”

She was speed-talking again; at least, that was what Daniel had decided to call her habit. He mirrored Will Stevens’ laughter behind the camera as Zea looked at her teammate accusingly with-what her eyebrows creasing, her glasses dipping on her nose.

Cute.

What?

And then she and a couple of people whose looks screamed intellect from head to toe for Daniel to assume must be Audi engineers started discussing something he couldn’t decipher before working directly on the car. He whistled through his teeth, cracking a grin. “Damn, she’s so badass!”

The visual of Zea skilfully mechanising the car, all the while being acknowledged—like she should—by her peers, was hotter than decent to admit. He wasn’t even going to touch the topic of her tattoo breathing out all its glory through that sleeveless shirt. How many times had he mentioned she rocked that??

“Badass who?” Scotty looked up from his phone. 

“Her.”

Michael snickered at Scotty’s straight face after Daniel’s deliberate attempt at being vague—and failing shamefully so. “Let him be,” he waved his hand, “you know what he’s like when he’s crushing on a girl.”

“Am not!” Daniel shouted his protest.

“Oh! You mean the ‘we’re colleagues for now’ girl?” Scotty conveniently ignored him, finding this whole his buddy-became-lame-every-time-he’s-crushing-on-a-chick thing entertaining.

Michael laughed, throwing his head back with genuine amusement before his eyes settled back to Scotty. “Believe me; he’s totally swerved direction. He’s into smart chicks now. Like, genius-level smart,” he continued, to which Scotty snorted. “Oh, good. She’s smart. He’s an idiot. See? Balance.”

“Shut the fuck up, you two!” Daniel’s scream was again ignored as his buddies cracked up in satisfaction. Which part of being a fan did they not understand?

Daniel shook his head at the indecent roaring noises his friends continued making, trying to focus on Zea as she explained something technical to the viewers.

But he wasn’t joking.

The admiration he felt was beyond genuine. She was probably the most technically involved driver on the paddock—hell, she was on par with the engineers and mechanics; she knew her car in and out.

So he’d decided he’d be her fan. What was so wrong with that? Especially after that ballsy stunt she pulled back in Hungary.

Daniel’s mind reeled back to the cool-down room after Zea’s  dramatic win.

24 July 2016. 3.17 PM. Cool-down room and the subsequent press conference post-Hungarian Grand Prix.

[From left to right] Daniel Ricciardo (Red Bull) and Zeahire Sinaga (Audi) 

Zea flinched as soon as she entered the cool-down room.

That was probably one of the few times she’d felt Lewis and Daniel to be so much bigger than she was. The three of them were already in a staring match; theirs fervent, hers victorious. Hers definitely was nowhere near helping subdue the intensity of the situation, not that she intended to anyway. Let a woman revel in her poignant victory. And thank goodness cameras seemed to be absent for this weekend’s cool-down room. 

“Heyyyyy,” her greetings trailed, awkward and defensive, aimed to simply break the silence. But Daniel and Lewis were still busy catching their breath—and mind, let’s be honest—to respond.

“So, uh… I guess congratulations on the podium, boys. Yay…”

Silence once more proved to be the sole reply available as both Lewis and Daniel busied themselves with wiping their sweat away. Heavy breathing, the look in their eyes was still intense. 

Okay.

One. Maybe that little wave she gave them was unnecessary, just to fill her quota of being an arrogant prick. And two, she pulled off that theoretically difficult move flawlessly, which may or may not tickle their self-esteem—the former seemed to be more apparent. But hey, we have already established she could be the worst person alive and a horrible rub-the-entire-bottle-of-alcohol-to-the-open-wound kind of opportunist, so save the judgment.

But come on. The silent treatment? Really? And they say her species was the dramatic one.

“Okay. I am so sorry, boys.” She’d raised both arms, renouncing her surrender—no harm in being the bigger person here. 

“I admit that wave was so unnecessary. That was me being an absolute…jerk. Forgive me.” She hoped she’d sounded sincere enough because, while it must’ve brazenly pricked their pride a little too deep somewhere—what did they say about men and pride again—they still had to admit what she did was fun, theatrical, and entertaining. Especially for the thousands of spectators watching. 

“So, can we hug it out?” That was when Zea squinted her eyes, trying to minimise her contact with the two fuming drivers across her.

Still no response.

Zea swallowed a sigh.

“Really? You two are seriously just gonna leave a girl hanging?” How very gentlemanly. But then again, she heard from the grapevine that chivalry was in danger of facing the same fate as Dinosaurs. Yep. Extinct.

Zea wagged her open arms, evidently waiting for a hug back. Or at least a fist bump? Signalling they were cool? Come on; one can only be so petty. And had she mentioned she wasn’t born with a side of patience in her DNA?

Lewis was the first to finally relax his expression. Good lad.

He exhaled hard; the annoyed look he’d been wearing was now replaced with curiosity.

He put down the water bottle he’d been drinking, tipping his head toward Zea. “How did you do that?” he prodded. “How did you find the right timing to hit the throttle? You could’ve come home without any tyres left.”

Daniel’s ears spiked up. He wasn’t going to lie; more than being pissed at her shenanigan was his interest in how she made that last move, well, worked.

“I really wanna say practice, but that was honestly the first time I’ve ever done anything like that and believe me—something I will never do again; so, yeah, math.” Zea wasn’t lying there. “It was a risky move; that’s why I first asked Marq for the rate of my tyre degradation.”

“No fucking way. You did not drive and count something else at the same time, woman.”

“What—the math?” Zea shrugged, her innocence oozing from every pore as she batted her lashes at Daniel. “Yes, fucking way. You can drive and count something else at the same time. Now that I mastered with practice.”

A slight grin edged at Daniel’s lips, his eyes darkening as his mood seemed to shift from pissed off to intrigued. Like he couldn’t quite believe she had it in her. He’d come to acknowledgement she was smart, but this smart? She was almost a genius. 

Lewis chuckled. “Aha! So it was code for tyre degradation! Great. Now we’re on to something.”

Zea blinked twice before laughing after realising she’d given out her cryptic code on her own. Lewis followed with a giggle like he’d caught her red-handed.

“I’m sorry. I was really struggling with pace, and you guys were closing in with DRS; I had to make that gamble. And hey, you’re leading the championship now, Lew; I’d say it’s a fair trade?” Zea cleared her throat before continuing. “Even though you lost to me and only leading by three points ahead of Nico,” she grinned as Lewis once again threw her a disgruntled look.

But with the giggling and her joking around with Lewis, Daniel soon followed to regain his composure. There was just something about it that soothed his hot temper after being played. But then again, they were racing fair and square—there was no need to drag this on. So he scurried closer to her.

“Hugs?” she said, noticing him inching closer. Daniel stared. Still intrigued by the way her mind worked. 

“Nope?” she made that pop sound with her nope, and Daniel kept his eyes steady on her.

“Okay. It seems you’re still mad. That’s alright. It was indeed a shitty move. I’d be mad, too, in your shoes. Take your time to forgive me.” No, Daniel wasn’t mad or anything; he was actually thinking of something else along the line she calls him Lew?? When did they get so close?

“Come here; let’s hug it out.” That was Lewis offering Zea a hug, but just before the deal was done, Zea pushed the Merc boy to a halt. “On second thought, I’m good. Let’s just say we’ve hugged it out. We’re cool now, yeah?” The laugh from Lewis was spontaneous upon seeing Zea over-dramatically pressing her nose, groaning.

That gave Daniel an idea.

In one swift move, he locked her neck, forcing her face against the nook of his armpit.

“Oh sh—HOLY SHIT! You piece of disgusting human!” Her muffled scream got both Daniel and Lewis laughing out in satisfaction. They even went so far as to stamp their ‘genius’ move with a fist bump. 

“Now we’re cool, woman!”

Not surprisingly, Zea had to enter her geek mode as she attempted to explain whatever she did in that last lap that got her rear wheels slightly smoking and her unannounced pit-stop in English terms without sounding like a conceited cunt during the subsequent press conference.

“Do you mind sharing, then, when the pit stop code happened?”

“Nah, we’re not that cool; we could only handle being so cryptic. We’ve already discussed this back in Silverstone—hey, we had double DNFs in the first lap; talk about so much free time.” Zea rolled her eyes, sarcasm thick in her voice.

Ironically, the room seemed nonchalant, so instead, they laughed in response. Talk about being so shallow.

“We agreed that if all six of them start with Super-softs, then I’d pit at forty—no questions asked—because the earliest window to pit for the others would be lap forty-four.

“But then so much happened. The Quali yesterday was a mess, too; we haven’t really had the chance to discuss it again. So I crossed my fingers and prayed they were ready… they were. Basic undercut strategy, nothing fancy, really.” Yeah, only with insane precision, thanks to Zea’s head.

“Zea, just trying to take your opinion. You are currently in fourth and Stevens at ten in the driver’s standing. Do you maybe see Audi has the potential to fight for the constructor's title sometime in the future?”

“Oh?” Zea stopped fumbling with her fingers, finding it interesting how the question opted her opinion for the Constructor’s Championship instead of the Driver’s, as if they’d already established she’d never had a chance of winning anyway—no point in asking.

“Interesting question.” Zea chuckled before her voice turned serious. “I personally think Audi as a constructor, is a powerhouse. They didn’t win rallies and endurance out of fluke; come on. But I believe transition needs time. A team is not built in a year or two; this is only our second year. Give it another two or three years and trust me—we’ll be contending for the title.”

The remaining of the conference went surprisingly enjoyable, even when things got a bit heated up upon queries on Zea’s escape from penalty even after being held for three hours and forty minutes for that double yellow issue.  

“But it’s not, definitely not, about Zea’s penalty; it’s about the safety issue and being clear for us.” Lewis made an effort to annunciate clearly, sitting up straighter in his chair to stress his points. “The fact she didn’t get penalised means the message we’re sending to the lower series is that it’s possible to lose only a tenth of a second in lap time in the double-waved yellow flag.”

“Can I speak up about this?” Zea raised her hand, to which the press line-up nodded.

“I do second Lewis, actually.” Zea glanced at the Brit. “It’s a fact that the double-yellow rule hasn’t been the clearest. But I do need to clear out the reason why I wasn’t penalised.

“The rule requires us to significantly slow down. By the time I was out, the track had fully dried, which definitely wasn’t the case for these two gentlemen. Dry track means I went so much faster on every corner, so that timing you talked about with Nico yesterday? Hell yeah, extremely important.” Zea could see Lewis nodding his head slightly from the corner of her eyes.

“But where the wordings ‘significantly slower’ was not defined, we looked at percentage—significant being more than 50%, let’s say. This means if I run at 200, I should’ve immediately run at 80—that’s 60% slower.

“My telemetry showed 290-294, which means I should immediately hit…” Zea angled her head a little, possibly calculating, “116-120; you don’t need to bother using your calculator, darling. The numbers are published in the FIA report. It’s online.” That got the room chuckling as Zea vocalised her notice of one reporter looking visibly sceptical at her quick mentions of numbers.

“My speed was 113 at turn 8—that’s 61% slower. For comparison, Lewis and Daniel were 67% slower. So, yeah, it was a straightforward case for the stewards; I lifted enough, and then I had gone quick enough on the other corners to make up for the lost time.” Hopefully, that was enough to settle any more nonsense the press might capitalise on that incident because not only it was incomparable to Jules’ accident, but it was also disrespectful to him. 

And then afterwards, Lewis had his giggles back on; Daniel went jester mode, as usual—seemed very happy about his podium finish. Until that question was raised. 

“Back in 2013, Sir Stirling Moss said women lack the mental aptitude to compete in F1. Earlier this year, before the season begins, Mr Ecclestone said that women drivers are not physically able to drive quickly enough in Formula One.”

Oh shit. Zea didn’t like where this was heading. Her raised eyebrow and a slight shift in her chair gave enough indication.

“In fact, his exact words were, ‘I don’t know whether a woman would physically be able to drive an F1 car quickly and they wouldn’t be taken seriously.’ Question to all drivers, do you believe that’s truly the reason for the lack of women in Formula One?”

Oh shit. Gotta give it to Ralf for being ballsy. As usual. Maybe that was why the paddock kept him around for every press conference. He squeezed the juice where it was the sweetest.

Daniel immediately glanced at Zea, only for his eyes to meet contact with Lewis. The Brit had apparently thought the same. Interestingly, the two share a similar vigilant look in their glance. 

But to their surprise, Zea didn’t show emotion, like her feelings were in a sudden vacuum. 

“Zea, perhaps you want to start?”

A smile shot up almost instantly on Zea’s face. But if there were one thing Daniel would notice was that her eyes didn’t fold into the usual twin crescent moon.

“Aww, well, that’s unfortunate.” The soft tone of her voice could’ve almost deceived Daniel into a sense of calm if he didn’t catch how hard her fists were clasped into a ball underneath the table. “Well, can’t say he’s entirely wrong, ‘cause I don’t remember having balls….” It seemed like she chose to twist a joke.

It worked. Everyone started giggling. 

“So this whole time, none of you guys have taken me seriously, then? Not even the both of you?” She took Daniel by surprise when she alternated her head between himself and Lewis without losing her smile, her tone humorous. 

“Evidently, you just beat us here, fair and square. Pulled a move I didn’t think was possible unless you’re either fearless or confident enough in your skills,” Lewis spoke up. “I don’t think we have any reason to not take her seriously?” He cocked up his head, glancing at Daniel.

Zea fought a smirk from creeping up not-so-discreetly on her face. 

Good. Go on, Lew.

“Absolutely, mate,” Daniel responded. “You heard her talking technical. You saw how she drove. If anything, we should be upping our game.”

“And if I’m not mistaken, Indycar has no power-steering? I remember seeing quite a few women driving there.”

“Oh yeah, you’re right!” Daniel snapped his finger at Lewis’ question. “Should’ve been much more difficult to drive, but it’s been quite some time since female drivers are involved in Indy.”

The edges of Zea’s mouth curled like she was suppressing a smile as her two colleagues behaved according to her bait. You see, sometimes, it is more effective to make a point by using others’ mouths. Look at her two colleagues proving her point. She didn’t even have to lift a finger.

But it was only natural; because only experts could appreciate the worth of another expert. What the hell did Mr Ecclestone know about driving anyway.

“Do you guys not take me seriously, then?” Zea finally spoke, directing—almost in a challenging tone—her question to the press.

“N-no! We do. We most definitely do,” was murmured roughly after. 

Zea kept her smile, but the look in her eyes changed, and her tone dropped lower. “Exactly.”

Daniel’s eyes stayed on Zea, watching her ease back into her chair.

“So. What other compliments did they have for us women?”

She was smiling. Beautifully, might he add. But something was intimidating about it that Daniel couldn’t put his finger on. And he knew that the press had felt it, too, because look at them gulping. 

The elevator ride down after the conference was even more interesting. It made Daniel wonder if Zea, along with Irza—he’d taken his turn to accompany his twin instead of Margareth this time—and Elijah, seemed to have forgotten entirely about Lewis and Daniel riding in the same elevator.

“So, uh, remind me again. How much of a crime is it to… blow up someone’s car?”

Daniel could barely hide his eyes widening in surprise. Never in his twenty-seven years of life had he heard a criminal plot discussed openly like this.

“In terms of…?” The fact that Irza responded calmly just heightened Daniel’s curiosity.

“Uhm… paperwork for you?” 

“Just the car? Or with the owner inside?” That was Elijah inquiring. And by now, Daniel was convinced that discussion on something along the line of this topic had been a regular thing. Should he be concerned?

“Well, the latter sounds incredibly tempting….” Was she being sarcastic? But Daniel couldn’t find any hint of playfulness in her tone.

“Well, if the person ends up dying, then—“

“—Obviously, yes. I know, Irza. I know.” She wasn’t facing him, but Daniel could’ve practically heard the eye roll she’d put on when saying that.

“But we’ve long established I’m an arse anyway.”

“Then it’s gonna be a lot of paperwork. For Alby and me.”

Zea sighed softly, her voice with just a hint of sadness. “But what if you can’t trace it back to me?”

A short pause from Irza as he tilted his head to the side, perhaps thinking. “Still a lot of paperwork—wait, actually, more. Extra, ‘cause then we’d need to cover up your track.”

“Just out of curiosity, Z, whose car? The Eccle-something guy? Or the Moss guy?” Elijah probed.

“Well, I’m sure we can throw the Moss guy somewhere in Maracanã Stadium, where dozens of football players would rightfully stomp him. But my conscience doesn’t allow me to harm that Eccle guy…directly?”

“Girl, you better make a decision??”

“Surely the Eccle guy has a son? A daughter? Who has a car? Wait, he is wifed, right? How old is he again?”

“I don’t know. Might-soon-die-of-a-heart-attack years old?” Daniel covered his face as he felt laughter bubbling in his throat. He heard Lewis and Michael scoffing as they, too, tried to swallow their laugh from Elijah’s remark. 

The elevator dinged, and the metal doors opened up.

That was when Zea turned around, catching her two colleagues off guard.

Oh. So apparently, she had been aware they were in the elevator together. 

“I haven’t said thank you for what you guys did back there, whatever your intention was. Thank you.”

Then, the three Audi personnel immediately jumped off, leaving Daniel and Lewis, along with their respective teams, in a mix of confusion and stifled laughter.

“What was that, man?” Lewis was beyond flabbergasted. 

Daniel was already rumbling in laughter. He threw his head back and laughed, his voice bouncing off the metal walls as he took a second to compose himself. “She’s fuckin’ ruthless, mate! That’s what it was!”

If that were the kind of conversation she’d share with her brother daily, then damn. 

Damn. 

How much more intriguing could she get?

Daniel chuckled, shaking his head at the memory and decided to pull up another video, still ignoring his buddies making fun of him in the background—they were still convinced he’d had it bad for her.

He kept scrolling, starting to discover how Audi would release a short two-minute video of their drivers doing a random mini-challenge for every race week.

Grabbing a handful of chips and chugging it down, Daniel tuned in to their newest challenge video, where Will Stevens donned a black, tight bodysuit paired with yellow flippers.

Daniel immediately burst out laughing. “Holy shit! What the fuck is he wearing?!”

“The things I do for views.” Will Stevens’ voice was subdued by Zea’s delightful laugh, matching Daniel’s. “What the [beep], Will?! Why do you look like a giant black [beep] sperm?!” Daniel laughed out louder, clenching his stomach at the exact description Zea had blurted.

“Mate, seriously, what the fuck are you watching?” Scotty started to sound concerned.

“He looks like a giant black sperm! Hahaha!” Daniel responded in between his laugh. He was laughing so hard his breath had started making hitching sounds. 

“What?!” Scotty’s worry was ignored as Daniel continued to laugh uncontrollably, feeling more and more tears bubble up his eyes.

“Do I just start painting his face?” 

“Don’t you dare mess it up.”

“You already look messed up.”

“[Beep] you. And why are you laughing again?”

“Mate, your face anatomy is literally 70% forehead.”

“What—Nonsense! What do you mean 70%—then my forehead should reach up here!” Stevens pointed at his nose, which only made Zea laugh even louder. 

“Wait, hold on. I don’t exactly remember how Daffy Duck looks.” At that point, Daniel couldn’t take it anymore. His laughter turned to giggles, which were quickly overtaken by a series of loud, boisterous cries. “Hahahaha! Oh shit, oh God, I can’t breathe.” He wheezed out between giggles as he watched Will Stevens turn more and more unrecognisable.

The video ended with Zea being reduced to the floor from laughing because of how ridiculous Stevens had ended up looking. 

Daniel tried his best to regain control over his breathing as another fit of giggles erupted from him. When it finally subsided enough for him to catch his breath, he turned back to Scotty. “Maybe Red Bull should start doing these nonsensical challenge videos. That was so fucking funny.” 

Scotty looked at Daniel; his eyebrows creased, judgment apparent in his face. “Mate, whatever this is,” he gestured all over Daniel, “—this is a new level of sad.”

“Shut up. Your judgement is not welcomed here.”

“I mean, look at you, mate. Getting desperately horny over your… colleague?”

“Who the fuck is—I’m her fan!”

“Yeah, right.”

“And don’t talk about her like that!” Daniel threw a pillow over to Scotty, who laughed his arse off.

“Hey, you two! Language!” Michelle, Daniel’s older sister, came from the kitchen, carrying one-year-old Noah. “What’s going on? I heard yelling,” she exclaimed, placing Noah in his baby chair next to the dining table.

“Daniel was being, uh… questionable,” Scotty told her with a smirk before continuing. “And now he thinks his behaviour is a ‘fan behaviour’.”

Michelle raised an eyebrow, and Daniel rolled his eyes and returned to his iPad. The three kept silent for a few seconds before Scotty spoke again. “He's crushing so bad it's painful to watch.”

"Oh..." Michelle finally registered what the heck was happening to her little brother. "It doesn't have anything to do with a certain woman, who's a racing driver, who recently won in Hungary, is it?" she asked with fake innocence.

That got Michael, who was busy texting on his phone, laughing hard while Daniel pouted his lips when he registered his sister’s teasing tone.

"You know she's in Perth, right?” Michelle added.

“What?” 

“Oh!” Scotty snapped his finger, “for the Audi launching thing, isn’t it? I forgot it’s today!”

“What??”

Michelle shook her head, snickering at Daniel as she turned on the TV, cocking her head to tell her brother to watch. 

“So, do you consider Australia to be your home?”

It was Zea on the TV, a live interview that immediately got Daniel’s attention. “Oh, shit. She is in Perth!” he exclaimed.

“I can’t deny it, can I? I did spend a good chunk of my childhood in Melbourne, so…yeah. But I have to say this is my first time visiting Perth. I had to move to Europe with my brothers to pursue my racing career, so, yeah… haven’t had the chance to come here.”

“Text her or something. Ask her out. Grab a beer?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Daniel sighed in defeat. “Just to set the record straight, I don't have feelings towards her. Except for admiration as a fan.”

“Sure you don’t,” said Scotty sarcastically.

Daniel ignored him.

The interviewer started talking again, and Michelle switched the channel to a kid’s show just as a commercial break started. She glanced at Daniel, who was now deep into his iPad again, looking very invested.

“So, are you gonna text her or not?” Michelle asked, breaking Daniel’s attention. 

The siblings looked at each other briefly before Daniel sighed. “I don’t have her number.”

“WHAT?!” Both Scotty and Michelle exclaimed at the same time.

“Holy shit, mate. I called it—this is a new level of sad!”

“Shut up!” Daniel snapped at them, turning away. They could practically see steam coming out of his ears. They roared in laughter.

“Uh, mate? I think you might be in luck?” Michael spoke up. “Remember Adrian? And his girlfriend Katey Ash?”

“Katey Ashley, the professional billiards player?”

“Yep,” Michael nodded at Scotty. “He’s asking me if we’re back in Perth ‘cause he’s meeting up with, check this out: Irza. Apparently, they’re friends.” Michael looked up from his phone. “And Katey is, guess what, friends with Zea, so tonight they’re meeting up in Pot Black, you know, that billiards bar.”

“Fuck. That’s like a 20-minute ride from here.” Daniel grunted; he couldn’t stop the grin slowly forming in his mouth. Was the universe really attesting to his agenda of getting closer to her?

As a fan, he meant. 

“Ooh~ Look at you~ Looking so radiant now~ Who was it who said I don’t have any feelings for her~” Scotty teased. He received another pillow thrown by Daniel, and the rest of them burst into another round of laughter.

Oh.

Seemed like an interesting night might be in the bag.

⬅️ Chapter 03 | MASTERLIST | Chapter 05 ➡️

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Finally back! I think I have something with the train ride back home, always getting ideas there haha. Anyway, I hope this one is a fun read. I'm trying to get my chappies below or like max 5k. Might be hard on chappies with races, though. Aaaand I had a lot of fun with the manip 🤣 Wanted to do one with the three of them together (Zea, Dan, Lew) but I think maybe sometime later… Anyway, thank you for showing love for my writing. It means a lot ❤️

__________

Tag list:

@scotlynaurora @squidwardsluverxx

#daniel ricciardo #pierre gasly #formula 1 #formula one #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #fanfic #formula one fanfiction #danny ric #daniel ricciardo fanfic #pierre gasly fanfic #formula one fic #slow burn #much fluff #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 au #female!driver oc #daniel ricciardo fic #pierre gasly fic #ayrton senna #slowburn fanfic #sbrSLOWBURN

[thommi-tomate]

Interview with Frans Krätzig

By: Kicker

Two games, one assist, one goal, twice in the kicker eleven of the day. How satisfied are you with your first few weeks at Vienna Austria?

It's been a great two weeks for me. I got off to a very good start and quickly settled in at Austria. It's very nice to live in Vienna and play football here. I didn't need much time to settle in, to be honest. But it was also made very easy for me. That's why I was able to play my part in the two victories.

You have very quickly played your way into the hearts of the Austria fans. What does that mean to you after such a short time?

First and foremost, it gives me a good feeling. It's nice when the fans say that you're doing a good job. Being received in this way has given me a very positive feeling. I try to repay that with performance. I always do my best, but you can't overdo it either: It's only been two games. With the derby against Rapid on Sunday, the most important game so far awaits us. We can certainly take the positive reactions from the fans into this game.

The derby is highly charged due to the tight race for the championship group.

That's true. I've heard so much about the game. Everyone I've spoken to about the derby so far is calling this weekend's encounter the "game of the year". I'm really looking forward to getting on the bus on Sunday and soaking up the atmosphere. We want to be there from the start and show that we are number one in the city.

Why did you decide to leave FC Bayern temporarily in the winter?

The most important argument was the playing time. The club also has a high standing in Austria. It was very important to me not to go just anywhere. I want to be seen! The people in charge at Austria gave me a good feeling and so, after talking to friends and family, I decided to go here.

How decisive was the proximity to home?

I wouldn't have minded going a little further away. But a lot of little things add up to an overall picture - and the fact that there is no language barrier spoke in Austria's favor. It almost couldn't have been any closer. I just have to feel comfortable with a club overall. Even if it's only for six months.

With coach Michael Wimmer and goalkeeper Christian Früchtl, two familiar faces were waiting for you at Austria. What role did these two play in your move?

Not a very big one. Of course, it's nice that I already knew Chris in passing. I knew the coach a bit better. But I didn't even train under him in Nuremberg for a year. It wasn't the main deciding factor, but of course it's a bit easier when you already know a few faces.

What was the communication like with Thomas Tuchel regarding your transfer?

Basically, the decision was made relatively late. Of course, I spoke to all the decision-makers and got their opinions. That was important to me. We came to a common denominator and then I was allowed to leave for Vienna.

You were in the Bayern squad for every game in the fall and have already had a taste of the Champions League. Do you regret not staying in Munich after all, given Bayern's current injury worries?

No, not really. I've decided 100 percent to join Austria and want to prove myself here. That's why it would be stupid to want to go back after just two weeks. But of course I watch the Bayern games and cheer them on. I'm also in front of the TV, screaming and wondering what's going on all of a sudden. I'm emotionally involved, but at the same time I feel very comfortable here. I'm not even thinking about going back to Bayern now.

With three defeats in a row, things are not going according to plan for FC Bayern, who are already eight points behind Leverkusen. Do they have to write off the championship in Munich?

Of course, they are now facing a difficult task, but that was also the case last year. Anyone who knows FC Bayern knows that they don't write anything off. Of course, the starting position is difficult, but now is not the time to worry about it. There are so many players at FC Bayern who just want to win. Nobody makes mistakes there on purpose. I still firmly believe in the championship. The game is not over yet.

In the recent past, home-grown players have traditionally found it difficult to make the leap to the professional ranks at FC Bayern. Sports director Christoph Freund is considered a great promoter of talent due to his past in Salzburg. What changes have you noticed since his arrival in Munich?

I don't have the confidence to make a final judgment because I don't really know what it was like before Christoph. In any case, I have a very good relationship with him. We always have very good and honest conversations. He understands me, I understand him. You notice a bit of the Salzburg school, I think. He relies a lot on young players. I think he has to make his mark on the club first. That's not easy with a club as big as FC Bayern. But if you give him time, it could be a very good match between Christoph Freund and Bayern Munich.

At Bayern, ex-Austria player Richard Kitzbichler has his eye on the players on loan. Did he advise you to move to Vienna and what is the current exchange with him like?

When it came to the switch here, I didn't ask his opinion. Maybe I could have done that, then I might have come here even quicker (laughs). But now I'm in regular contact with him. It's very nice to still have a constant connection to his home club. And it also shows that Christoph attaches a lot of importance to the youngsters when he brings someone with him who primarily looks after the loan players.

What is your impression of Austrian football so far?

Compared to what I've heard about the league before, the impression is very good. I had a very positive impression, especially in our two home games. Everything is very professional here. Of course, you can't compare it to the German Bundesliga, it's just not that advanced yet. There is a lot of potential for development, but the league is on the right track. It's the perfect springboard for young players like me. You can also see that in many other talents who have done the same as me. Everything connected with Austria Vienna and the Austrian Bundesliga has been very, very cool so far.

In Austria, the league is divided into a championship group and a qualifying group after 22 rounds. What do you think of this?

I haven't given it too much thought yet. I don't know how I'm going to find the final answer.

Vienna Austria is currently one point off the top six. How do you assess your team's starting position?

We're in a good position after the two wins. We're not thinking ahead just yet, we just want to win the next game. It will be tight, but we can do it. It would be nonsense not to believe it.

#frans krätzig #austria vienna #fc bayern münchen #interview

[lizpaige]

lizpaige reads: chapter two

Here's the thing - I'm sick of people recommending "underrated" fics that have 50k+ hits. Those aren't underrated, babes. Here's a dump of some fics I've read over the last week or so. Feel free to send me your own recs. Always read the tags before the fic. (I'll tag this series with #lizpaige-reads) Here's chapter one [x]

A Reckoning, of Sorts by melpomenite Sirius and Remus aren't exclusive, but that doesn't mean Sirius doesn't have a hard time when he sees Remus with somebody else.

keep your electric eyes on me, babe by @alamanecer a bottle of firewhiskey. a meddling james potter. it started as a game, but somewhere along the way it's become lingering gazes, hushed confessions under the moonlight, two friends, fumbling around their feelings for each other. remus is in for a long night.

angel, islington by @aeridi0nis Liking Remus is completely different to liking Fabius Watkins; this is Moony, with his too-long limbs and knit jumpers and Welsh lilting voice like running water, his freckles and his snoring and the scar on his bottom lip that he has a habit of chewing when he’s nervous (which is not an image Sirius thinks about ever, thank you very much). In a school career characterised by various, frequent bad ideas, fancying Remus would have to be Sirius’ very worst. or: Nineteen seventy-five, and Sirius is getting over it all. Really, he is. Really.

Fruitless by @moony-bat Sirius was determined to never marry; he was determined to never give his parents the satisfaction of accepting a dowry on his behalf, nor was he ever going to willing continue the Black family line. Remus, the Duke of Wales, a bitter and burgeoning revolutionist, had refused to join the London ton during the courting season since he turned of age eight years ago. But this year he reluctantly acquiesces to the fact he must fulfill his duty and find himself a Duchess, sooner rather than later.

Born Under Punches by @newsom The truth is that he’s kept this love on the back burner of his heart for so many years that he’s grown accustomed to the smell and can sometimes almost ignore it completely. He likes to think he’s made peace with the fact that he’ll never know what it tastes like.

Inflations, Invitations, and Flirtations by @squidgilator Or: The Li-Lo at Lupin's. In which plenty of people crash on Remus' air mattress after Hogwarts, and Sirius isn't jealous at all.

My Equal by WeirdFangirlingPersona "They've got Remus." | Murder Husbands AU

Danger Never Looked So Good by WeirdFangirlingPersona Adrenaline makes Remus’ blood sing under his skin. He’s so close. He can feel the victory at the tips of his fingers. The Marauders Gang boss has been escaping him for months. But tonight, the game of constant pursuit, near captures and repeated escapes ends. Tonight, the ever evasive Sirius Black is going to get caught. Although, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying the chase.Or: Enemies to Lovers prequel to Murder Husbands AU (can be read as standalone)

#wolfstar #wolfstar fic rec #fic rec #marauders #ao3 #sirius black #remus lupin #james potter #harry potter #the marauders #wolfstar fic #remus x sirius #sirius x remus #mwpp #mwpp era #marauders fandom #mauraders #marauders fic rec #lizpaige-reads #lizpaige reads

[effymaybe]

Thank you so much for the baking, it made my day! How about the other way round - something silly and fluffy Mon enjoyed and Sam grew to like too?

Glad you liked it bb. I’m really enjoying these prompts. This started in some note and ended in waaaaay another but hey! It’s something, right?

-

Mon’s always been committed to her responsibilities. Fueled by both her family’s values and the memory of a young Sam’s kindness, she has always tried her best to achieve her goals, investing hours and hours of her time in work. As a student, she got straight As. As a professional, her efforts shine through her innovative ideals, even recognized by her peers above the obvious fact that she’s married to the boss. So Mon has always built her own path to success, and as much as her victories are certainly pleasant, her dedication has often meant not always finding space to indulge herself. In fact, it isn’t until a year after her marriage that she starts reading just for fun. It starts with her having a slight –totally manageable- cold and her pretty wife asking her again and again to please stay home, darling. Mon refuses, but then Sam pouts and pecks her lips once, twice, and then she’s puddle in her wife’s steady arms and within a mewl and another, she’s agreeing. So she finds herself alone in her big house, relaxing on a work day, fighting against the impulse of grabbing her laptop and staring designing again because she promised Sam she wouldn’t, and then Sam promised that she would reward her if she was good, and Mon just loves rewards. She remains strong. She wanders around the house, coughs a little, and then makes it to the bookshelf upstairs. Her eyes land in a small book Song forgot in a quick visit to her sister and they forgot to return. Mon takes it, sits on the ridiculously expensive armchair Sam’s grandmother gifted her for her birthday, and begins to read.

Mon falls in love with words almost immediately.

So she begins to read a lot, and develops an special taste for poetry. She buys herself a few books and as soon as Sam takes note on her new hobby –witch takes her, mind you, no more than a week or so- she buys her collection after collection, adoring the way Mon’s face lights up before them. Mon is happy, and therefore, Sam is happy, too. Same is not exactly an avid reader, at least not in the traditional book-worm way, but she realizes quickly that there are many advantages to Mon’s growing love for literature. Many evenings are spent with Mon quietly diving in mystical plots while Sam finds herself a cozy little place just in her lap. She would feel the brush of her wife’s fingers through her hair and doze off just like that, incredible peaceful. In the mornings, she often finds little notes with lines the pieces Mon likes the most. I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river / to me you’re everything that exists; the reality of everything – made me think of you – I love you. And Sam smiles, all teeth and softness around the eyes, and she thinks she can get through any hard day just fine. But she loves it even more when Mon reads for her.

It takes her some convincing, of course, because her wife gets so shy and cute, but then she whines slightly, tilts her head pleadingly, buries he nose in Mon’s neck and it’s enough. Mon smiles slightly, in love, always so ridiculously in love, and searches through her favorites because Sam deserves the best. She leans towards her nightstand and fetches a book. You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon's wind, Mon recites, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice. Sam stares at her with half-lidded eyes. She’s married to her. That’s her wife. Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water. Mon makes a pause to take a breath. The glow of the night lamp caresses the side of her face.  You are taken in the net of my music, my love, and my nets of music are wide as the sky. Sam feels her raw love blistering in her chest, and she knows that Mon feels the same. They are so in sync, and she looks so pretty, so endless with her little book that takes Sam everywhere. And Sam would let her finish the poem, if she didn’t look so damn enticing. Instead, she leans forward to kiss her and Mon giggles in delight, because every reading session ends up the same, with Sam’s clever fingers all over her body as she asks her to talk, please, say anything, and Mon’s voice get deeper, raspier, strangled by love, love, love.

Mon is keen on words.

#mon x sam #monsam #gap the series

[azurillturtle]

spring: bargainings (heart & home)

i wrote this like a week ago as part of all the days of our lives but since realized it treads too close to territory that's covered in other stories, so for the sake of not getting too repetitive, i'm dumping it here. not fully edited; i decided not to post it while i was reading through it the first time.

G, Azem and Hythlodaeus a month after the wedding.

“A consultation, if you will.”

Those were the words Azem spoke when he stepped into Hythlodaeus’s office. Those were the only words that could have convinced Hythlodaeus to allow him to stay.

That did not mean he had to be pleased about it. He set down his quill and folded his hands atop his desk. A quick flick of his eyes was enough to signal displeasure and dismissal to the assistant who had accompanied Azem thus far; they backed out into the hall, nearly stumbling over their feet in their haste to escape, and closed the door with a hurried bow.

Azem shifted his weight to the side and smirked, though whether it was in reaction to Hythlodaeus’s annoyance or in spite of it was less clear. Hythlodaeus’s eyes narrowed, and he took a moment to run a swift calculation.

He could hardly refuse. Regardless of Hythlodaeus’s personal feelings, Azem was an esteemed member of the Convocation of Fourteen and Hythlodaeus was in no position to turn him away.

“Well?” he prompted, when Azem did not immediately launch into his reasons for coming. “Out with it, then.”

Azem’s mirth faded. He strode forward, crossing the distance between them in a few impatient steps.

Good. The faster they sorted out this business, the faster he would leave, and the sooner Hythlodaeus could return to his usual work. Dull though it might be, it was vastly preferable to the Traveler’s company.

Azem leaned forward, his eyes bright and serious. “Tell me what Emet-Selch likes,” he said—and then, while Hythlodaeus was still trying to wrap his mind about that request, “And also what you like.”

Hythlodaeus opened his mouth, intending to deliver a sarcastic retort. Nothing emerged. He hesitated, bit his lip, and closed his mouth, jerking his chin at the chair before his desk in lieu of speaking.

Azem was grinning, as if shocking Hythlodaeus into silence was some great victory. He slung himself into the chair, crossed his arms, and waited. When Hythlodaeus found himself able to speak, he bit out a single curt word. “Explain.”

Azem shrugged, the roll of his shoulders so slow that he might have been stretching. “As I said. I’m here to request a consultation. I want to know what you and Emet-Selch like.”

Hythlodaeus closed his eyes and resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. This was very much not what he had meant when he had agreed to a standing consultation agreement.

“And why, exactly, are you inquiring into our tastes?”

“I’m leaving on a journey soon,” Azem said. Hythlodaeus would normally have been pleased to hear it, save that those words were immediately followed up with, “I wanted to know what would be appropriate souvenirs for the both of you.”

Hythlodaeus stared at him. Slowly Hythlodaeus reached up and adjusted his collar for lack of a better response. When he lowered his arm again, Azem was still looking at him, eager and apparently sincere.

“What.”

Azem apparently took his lack of refusal as encouragement. “Well, to start with—you’ve seen the manor. You know how it is. Absolutely unlivable.”

Hythlodaeus’s eyes flicked past Azem to the cuckoo clock hanging by the door. Unfortunately it was silent, forty minutes yet from singing to mark the hour. It was a different song every hour, Hythlodaeus had learned, each one both unique and uniquely terrible.

Azem’s fingers were tapping restlessly against the arm of the chair. “Emet-Selch doesn’t seem to like the house very much, and he did say it’s my home as well. I take that to mean I’m within my rights to redecorate as I see fit.”

It was not a half-terrible idea. Hythlodaeus himself had been tempted on many occasions to change it to something more palatable—sneaking in vases of flowers when Emet-Selch was looking the other way perhaps, or throwing out some of those horrid animated skeletons—but he had always known his place. It was not his home and those were not his decisions to make.

And then along came Azem, not even here a month before he was deciding to change the decor—and none would argue, none would stop him, because it had never been Hythlodaeus’s home, but it was now Azem’s.

“You could ask Emet-Selch for his thoughts,” Hythlodaeus said.

Azem grimaced. “I know Emet-Selch well enough to know he would dismiss my questions out of hand. No, if I desire a straight answer, I must look elsewhere.”

Hythlodaeus cleared his throat. “…Most eminent Azem. May I speak plainly?”

“I wasn’t under the impression you were doing aught else.”

Hythlodaeus’s brows drew together. He glared at Azem, not saying a word, until Azem looked away and ducked his head in silent apology.

“So,” Hythlodaeus said finally. “If I have this right, you seek a gift for Emet-Selch to endear yourself to him. And the gift for me is… what? A bribe for my cooperation?”

As he’d expected, his words elicited a flicker of discomfort across Azem’s face. “I wouldn’t call it a bribe. More a… gesture of goodwill for you both. Not buying my way into your good graces, but… a show of friendship?”

Azem sighed. His head drooped; he kicked his heel against the floor, sending mud flaking off his boot onto the rug. His hands curled around the arms of the chair in which he sat. “…If I may speak plainly as well. I know you do not like me.”

Hythlodaeus raised one deeply ironic eyebrow, as if to say, “Yes, and?”

“I will not call it unwarranted. I have given you every reason to dislike me.” Azem grimaced, lifting one hand to rub his palm across his chin. “In my defense, I do not usually run about seducing people’s lovers away from them. This is new to me and I cannot say I enjoy it.”

“That makes three of us,” Hythlodaeus said dryly.

It was not the sort of admission that offered sympathy or gave up any ground. Azem only nodded, acknowledging the truth they already knew. “I also do not enjoy being disliked. Most people don’t, I think, and so we aim for compromise and reconciliation. I would of course understand if you find it impossible at this juncture—”

Hythlodaeus snorted. He couldn’t help himself. Under the circumstances, it was passing unlikely that they would ever get along, now or at any point in the future. Azem inclined his head, a ghost of a wry smile the only indication that he knew what Hythlodaeus was thinking. “Nevertheless. Given the circumstances, it seems likely that ours will be a long acquaintance. I don’t know if we can ever really be friends, but at the least, I would have us make an effort not to hate each other.”

“No,” Hythlodaeus said slowly. “That would be… exhausting. But you cannot expect my heart to be swayed by words alone.”

Azem spread his arms wide, a grandiose gesture. “I’m trying as best I can. Give me credit for that at least.” Hythlodaeus tilted his head and made no response, but Azem was already continuing, “It’s rude to go haring off on an adventure and come back with nothing to show for it save stories. At the very least I would be expected to bring back a gift for… Emet-Selch…”

He hesitated before speaking the name, as if it left a bitter taste on his tongue. Hythlodaeus heard the pause, the space that had been nearly occupied by a different word, one that would have made the association between the two Tenets even more unpleasantly clear.

“…and I would rather not give something that would cause unintentional insult. And if I am thinking about what to get for Emet-Selch, I cannot help but also consider what I should get for you.” What Azem should bring for Hythlodaeus, to whom he had already offered the gravest of insults.

Azem shrugged one shoulder, the motion too forced to appear as unconcerned as he had intended. “And so we return to my original question. What sort of gifts would you and he like? Anything you can tell me would be appreciated. I…”

And then he paused. For the first time his resolve faltered; for the first time, he looked as if he might regret coming. He looked down, only now noticing the streaks of dirt he had left across the floor.

“I do not know you or he nearly well enough to know what you like, in the specific or the abstract,” he murmured. “In an ideal situation, we would have had time to learn each other and time to come to terms with what must be done. …Though I suppose in a truly ideal situation, none of this would have been necessary at all. I know it’s too late and may be a lost cause, but if I can, I would like to make up the time we never had.”

The smile he summoned up then was small and pained and somehow, inexplicably, heartfelt. “So I will ask you again, Hythlodaeus. What do you like? What is it that brings you joy?”

Hythlodaeus said nothing. He pushed papers and concept crystals aside, as if by clearing space on his desk, he was giving himself time and space to think.

That a choice had been laid before him was laughably obvious. On the one hand there was Azem sitting before his desk, holding himself still with a monumental effort that did nothing to disguise the anxious tremors of his soul. On the other hand, there was Hythlodaeus himself, who knew logically that his stubborn resistance would do none of them any good in the end but still wished, perversely and cruelly, that Azem should come to understand exactly what kind of suffering he had brought down upon them.

Hythlodaeus gazed at the clock on his wall, the clock that had been gifted from the manor of Emet-Selch to him. It was still thirty-five minutes removed from chiming the hour with the song that was so terribly efficient at removing unwanted visitors from his office.

Even in the face of his long silence, Azem did not speak. At last Hythlodaeus tore his gaze away from the clock to frown at Azem. “We hardly know anything about you either.”

Azem moved only slightly: his shoulders slumping, his weight shifting forward, his lips parting just enough to expel a silent sigh of relief. He spoke with a swiftness, an eagerness, that made Hythlodaeus wince. “I’ll tell you anything you wish to know. Not that there’s much at all to know about me. I’m not in the habit of keeping secrets.”

“Hm.” Hythlodaeus leaned back, folding his arms and tilting his chin up. It was a foolish, dangerous offer—and to take Azem up on it would be to jeopardize his goodwill. “…Then let us start with the obvious. Where are you going?”

Azem blinked. Whatever question he had been expecting, it had certainly not been that. He hesitated, licked his lips, and after a moment answered regardless. “…I’ll be in Lahabrea’s realm for a time. That’s where the most recent spat of turbulence has been. He is… displeased that it’s gotten as bad as it has. I’ll be paying him a visit in part to soothe his ruffled temper, in part to listen to his tirades and see if he has any promising suggestions, and in part to chase down my own leads. I’ll see if I can glean any more information from the breakthrough sites, talk to a few of my own contacts, do some research… you know how it is.”

Hythlodaeus nodded. It was a surprisingly well-reasoned approach. He could not profess familiarity with very many travelers, but he had imagined Azem an exemplar of all the stereotypes: restless, flighty, frivolous, and possessed of an inability to stay in one place for very long. He had failed to consider that Azem was one of the Convocation and thus among the most competent and capable of their people.

“Lahabrea’s realm… if I’m not mistaken, it should be around the hottest time of the year there.” He waited for Azem’s confirmatory nod before continuing. “I haven’t spent much time there myself. I couldn’t name anything in specific that Emet-Selch or I might like. But if your goal is to bring back something for the manor… well.

“In all the time that I’ve known him…” Hythlodaeus paused. He hadn’t intended to emphasize the length of their acquaintance, but Azem’s look of chagrin was so fleeting that he might have imagined it, and so he continued with barely a pause. “…he’s never been very concerned with appearances. For all the flamboyance with which he works, he has always hated to be surrounded with gaudiness and glitter. The colors themselves suit his tastes…”

Hythlodaeus stopped there, lips quirking in remembrance. Emet-Selch as a young man, clad all in black as if hoping to fade forgotten into the shadows of the classroom; Emet-Selch cutting a striking finger in black and silver, imposing and uncomfortable in the center of the ballroom floor. He’d never known Emet-Selch to surround himself with bright colors and he could hardly imagine it now.

Azem was staring at him. With an effort Hythlodaeus wrenched his thoughts back to the present. “…He doesn’t mind the choice of colors. It’s, er, the specifics of decoration that pose a problem.”

“The bones,” Azem said, as if it needed to be said. “And the bodies. The jewels.”

“Yes.”

Azem said quietly, “It’s a dark house. Have you noticed?”

It was not a question to which he expected an answer, and Hythlodaeus did not give one. He knew what Azem meant. The darkness and silence hung heavy and tasted of magick and secrets. It was easy to lose one’s way in those shadowed corridors, alone save for the sound of footsteps, one’s own ragged breathing, and the growing fear snaking cold fingers down one’s spine.

But he did not refer only to the spells for concealment and privacy. It was not only dark, it was empty. One could walk the halls for minutes at a time without encountering another living soul, and even if lanterns lit every step of the way, it was still a disorienting, eerie experience. Hythlodaeus had never been more aware of his mortality than when he walked alone through the manor, feeling as if he’d wandered lost into the Underworld and would never again see the sunrise.

“If your aim is to make it brighter, then you will find no argument from me or anyone else,” Hythlodaeus said quietly. “Do whatever you see fit. As for what in particular he might like—he has always been one to enjoy his studies. Books of all sorts. Rare grimoires. Anything that might advance his studies. Those would be the safest choice; anything else would be subject to taste, and I daresay you’ll learn those well enough in time.”

Azem nodded, accepting the advice as given. “Then that leaves my gift for you.”

Hythlodaeus was already opening his mouth, preparing to deflect the question: He had no need for a gift really, he would be satisfied with anything, whatever local sweets passed as souvenirs in Lahabrea’s realm would do well enough—but Azem was already continuing, “I’ll keep an eye out for odd inventions or creative applications of magick, anything I haven’t seen before. Though I suppose you might already be familiar with all of them. I don’t have a great sense what sort of things might cross your desk.”

Hythlodaeus hesitated. “…Explain to me your reasoning, if you will.”

“You’re the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect,” Azem said promptly. “Few of us choose a career we dislike, and none of us rise to high station without true enjoyment our work. That means you have an interest in creation and the works of men. Chief though you may be, overseeing all new creations is a tall order. There must be things out there that haven’t reached you yet or that passed under your desk unnoticed that you would be delighted to learn about. And so I will collect anything that catches my eye or my fancy and bring them back to you, and you can give your professional opinion on how brilliant or ill-advised each is in turn.”

It was… not the answer Hythlodaeus had expected.

It was a good answer, and no less inaccurate than claiming Emet-Selch would like books. Of course Hythlodaeus would like interesting concepts. Of course he would be fascinated and delighted by strange inventions yet unfamiliar to him. For all that he had intended to give away nothing of himself, Azem had still hit upon an answer. Perhaps it should have been obvious to anyone who knew of his work, but still it felt as if Azem had found a gap in his defenses all the same.

Hythlodaeus kept his unblinking gaze on Azem and his lips pressed tight together. It was his best attempt at keeping his expression neutral. Azem smiled slightly in return and looked down at his hands, restlessly lacing his fingers, unlacing them, lacing them again. “…And in time, I suppose I’ll learn the specifics of your tastes as well.”

Hythlodaeus did not immediately respond. His mouth had gone dry and his tongue thick. It was a moment before he remembered how to form words. “I suppose you will.”

Azem laughed as if Hythlodaeus had admitted to some great secret. He clasped the armrests of his chair again, levering himself forward with a bright smile. “All right then. Anything interesting I find, I’ll send along your way.”

“I’m almost afraid to see what you consider interesting.”

“Oh, don’t be like that! I’m a considerate and charming individual when I put my mind to it.”

Without thinking, Hythlodaeus glanced at the clock again. Half an hour yet until it chimed.

Azem noticed the direction of his gaze and seemed to take it as a sign that his presence was no longer to be tolerated. He pushed himself to his feet, adjusted the fall of the cloak about his shoulders, and inclined his head to Hythlodaeus. “Thank you for your assistance. I’ll do my very best to find something you like.”

“Safe travels, Azem,” Hythlodaeus said neutrally.

He stopped just short of wishing for Azem’s swift return, but apparently that was assumed, for Azem only nodded as if he had spoken the words aloud. He pushed the chair away from Hythlodaeus’s desk and crossed to the door without once looking back, only offering a lazy salute to the clock as he approached it.

Hythlodaeus did not realize he was going to speak until Azem stood just before the door; then the words escaped him in a tangled rush. “You asked what I would like, but you never offered me the opportunity to answer before you made your own assumptions.”

Azem paused, one hand resting on the doorknob, and glanced back at Hythlodaeus questioningly. Hythlodaeus unfolded his arms. He rested one elbow on his desk and leaned his cheek against it, frowning up at Azem through the fall of his eyelashes.

“What I like—what I want the most—is for Emet-Selch to be happy.”

He only said as much to get a rise out of Azem. He felt unreasonably disappointed when Azem only nodded, taking his words at face value. “Of course. And if it was within my power to grant that wish, I would.”

It was Hythlodaeus’s turn to wince. Azem only watched him, and the expression he wore was sympathetic, and his eyes were sad.

Hythlodaeus resented Azem. He had every reason to resent Azem. But—just for a moment—he thought that perhaps the one most deserving of resentment was himself, he who could not relinquish his own desires even in the face of dire necessity.

When Hythlodaeus did not answer, Azem smiled wanly and inclined his head. “I’ll do my best to find you a gift, even if it falls far short of your heart’s desire.”

Before Hythlodaeus could formulate a response, Azem had turned away again. With one last wave, he was disappearing down the hall, and Hythlodaeus could not find it in himself to give chase.

After a moment, Hythlodaeus sighed; after a moment, he laced his fingers together, rested his forehead against his palms, and closed his eyes.

What a horrible, impossible man.

Hythlodaeus had not the slightest idea what to do with him.

#ruriwrites #heart&home tag #crimes against greek mythology

[marshallpupfan]

So... those Drink & Play bottles.

When I first discovered they released a new wave of these, this time based on the theatrical film, I was ever-so determined to find Marshall and his movie firetruck. Unlike last time, the odds were a little worse now, as they also included Liberty and her scooter into the mix. Finding anything of Marshall meant I had a 1 out of 7 chance, which... isn't the worst odds, right?

Of course, when I first started, I wasn't able to find either of the two I was seeking. Sadly, for a while, I was starting to wonder if I'd be able to find them at all because the store only got a few of these in. Thankfully, they ended up getting some more a few weeks later, and of course, I bought a few more...

Luck still wasn't on my side, but thankfully, after some more tries...

I finally found Marshall! What a beautiful sight... especially given how many bottles it took to find it! Sadly, I still couldn't find his firetruck, and I was really determined to find it. Unfortunately, my odds now are 1 out of 14. Still, I continued buying a few more bottles...

And then a few more...

And then a few more...

And then... well, you get the idea. Sadly, still no firetruck.

Before I knew it, I ended up buying way more than I expected. Looking back, I can't say I'm too proud of that. Contrary to what it might seem, my funds are quite limited, so as a result, I may not be buying any new Marshall merchandise for a while. At least these drinks do taste good, and they're full of vitamins. Not a total loss!

But yeah, I ended up buying way too many... and as you'd expect, I ended up getting some duplicates.

...and way too many of Chase's vehicle. Seriously, how'd I keep finding so many of these!? In any case, factoring out all of the duplicates...

I soon discovered that I nearly had the whole set. Not that I intended to do this, mind you, but it just worked out that way. At this point, all I was missing was Skye, Rubble, and of course, Marshall's firetruck.

Going back to the store today, I ended up buying some more again. What did I get this time?

Rubble. Well... now I'm just missing Skye and Marshall's firetruck. Sadly, the rest were all duplicates, so no such luck once again.

Disappointed that I didn't get the one I was looking for, my mother, feeling sympathetic, handed me some cash and told me to go back in and buy some more. I told her she didn't have to do that, but she said she had a good feeling. I figured "what the heck, let's do it."

And the results?

...Yup.

I now have them all EXCEPT the specific one I've been desperately looking for. I swear, this kind of rotten luck can only happen to me.

I still had a few more to open up, but I wasn't optimistic at all. I honestly figured the rest would all be more duplicates, thus more wasted money. I was starting to think I'd have to settle for just Marshall without his firetruck. A moral victory is still a victory, right?

And what did I find after opening the last few I purchased?

Oh? OH?!? Finally!!

After buying waaaaaaaaaay too many of these bottles, I finally got it. I don't know if it was worth it or not, considering the amount of money I spent, but as a Marshall fan, I'm overjoyed to finally get to add both of these to my collection at last! For a while there, I was seriously starting to doubt if Indiana got any at all. lol

And, for your viewing pleasure, here's the whole set. Again, I never intended to get every single one, but I did somehow, anyway. And I don't have to admit how many I bought in total, but just know the number might make me cry myself to sleep tonight. lol

And thus, my Drink & Play journey finally comes to an end... well, mostly. Truth is, I want to buy just one more, but for a reason.

About a month ago, I bought a bottle with Marshall on it, but I left it unopened because I wanted to display it with my collection. At this point, I'm dying to know what's inside it. If I can find one more with Marshall on the cover, then I'm going to open it. If it has his firetruck in it, I'm... well, I don't need to admit just what I'll say. lol

When or if I do this, I'll be sure to let you guys know what's inside!

[sshbpodcast]

Good, bad, or somehow both? The [simultaneously] best and worst of S6 Voyager

by Ames

We’re nearing the Alpha Quadrant in our watchthrough of Star Trek: Voyager and the episodes are leveling off to come in for a landing. Most of season 6 of the show is middle-of-the-road, with thought-provoking elements AND missed opportunities abounding simultaneously, often in the same episodes. This was a tricky season for your hosts at A Star to Steer Her By to pick top and bottom episodes for, and our individual tastes really colored our selections more than usual.

So much so, in fact, that for the first time since our coverage of The Animated Series there are multiple episodes featured on both the tops and bottoms lists! There’re also a good number of episodes we just found solidly good or solidly bad, so see where they’ve fallen in our picks below and listen to this week’s podcast coverage (season wrap starts at 1:00:03) which features extra picks from guest star Liz!

[images © CBS/Paramount]

Top Three Episodes

While we weren’t as wowed as we were for previous seasons, the episodes of season six tended to be more character-driven, personal, and driven by the hope that drives the Voyager closer on its journey home. There’s some good stuff in these quieter, more overlooked episodes that we want to shout out to.

“Tinker, Tenor, Doctor, Spy”: Jake Every so often, Star Trek gets comedy right, and surprising no one, it’s usually when the Emergency Medical Hologram is involved. Robert Picardo just brings so much to even his smaller moments that it’s commendable, and good to see his turn as the Emergency Command Hologram to showcase a bunch of good jokes. Too many jokes perhaps? You be the judge since we’ll hear more about this episode shortly…

“Spirit Folk”: Chris Another episode we see multiple sides of is the sequel to the earlier episode “Fair Haven” (more on that in a moment). Again, it’s one of those comedy episodes that you find yourself either laughing or groaning at, but this one had some really fun moments. From the townspeople turning from NPCs to protagonists, to the Kathryn-Michael relationship feeling more right, to the zany witchcraft, there’s something to giggle about.

“Life Line”: Caitlin What’s better than one Bob Picardo being a diva? Two Bob Picardos being divas, of course! The relationship between the EMH and his creator Lewis Zimmerman is so fraught that it’s almost too familiar (you’ve seen our Parents in Star Trek blogpost, right?) and yet so nice to watch them grow together and come to understand each other, even if it’s just a little bit.

“One Small Step”: Ames Much of this episode is hauled up by some really lovely scenes from frequent Trek face Phil Morris as Commander John Kelly. We get to see this doomed astronaut’s final logs after he was lost in a space ravioli, and they’re so touching that they warm the cold heart of a former Borg drone. Seven gets to see firsthand why we honor historical milestones and the amazing people behind them.

“Child’s Play”: Jake We also talked in our Parents blogpost about Icheb’s monstrous mother and father who are very firmly in the worst category of parents, but this episode itself is also a bit of a fascinating story. The Brunali are a people constantly attacked by the Borg and they are willing to create and sacrifice their own children to take them down. What we get is a great ethical dilemma for Seven to solve when she herself becomes a protective parental figure and it’s lovely to see.

“Pathfinder”: Chris Finally, a moment of hope for the Voyager crew after their attempts to get home keep getting dashed over the course of the previous seasons. It’s a lovely victory for Barclay, and we also get to rejoice in watching him concoct a plan to get in touch with his latest obsession, with the help of a holographic recreation of its crew and also Troi, who is useful for a change! Sure, Reg’s holo-addiction is still a problem, but he’s using it to his advantage.

“Memorial”: Ames, Caitlin This episode is bound to elicit a response because of how much (and how well!) it depicts how people react to trauma. The PTSD that the whole crew ends up suffering from is something that’s so important to see as a focus, and it’s so very human (or Talaxian a little). On top of that, we get a unique perspective on how people spread their histories, and the way they go about it is about as messed up as histories themselves tend to be. No species will ever learn.

“Blink of an Eye”: Caitlin, Jake Speaking of histories, “Blink of an Eye” tells the story of a whole society’s development over eons in a single sitting. It’s one of those episodes that is told in such a fascinating manner that it captures your attention and your imagination. Each little vignette from the hyperfast aliens is a perfect little bite from their society, exactly the right size to entice. And ending the whole thing with a moving performance from Daniel Dae Kim? Delicious.

“Riddles”: Ames, Chris Wrapping up our list is a true dark horse candidate, the surprisingly moving and delicately handled episode of rehabilitation and recovery, told in a way that is supportive but strong – just like the Neelix-Tuvok relationship. These two may be most frequently paired together as the comedic odd couple, but when Tuvok is impaired and Neelix is there for him, it reminds you how sweetly their characters fit together. I love their weird love.

—

Bottom Three Episodes

Not a ton of truly bad stuff this season, which is where disagreements in our lists tend to come from. When there’s not a lot to choose from, we get nitpicky. And when we get nitpicky, we get pedantic. The real missteps that were made this season… well, you’ll see those too.

“Tinker, Tenor, Doctor, Spy”: Ames While this episode made one tops list, there’s also some squicky characterizations that drag it to the bottom as well. The Doctor is shown to be conceited, lewd, and downright gross in many of his fantasies, making us all cringe through scenes of him painting Seven in the nude, fondling Janeway’s bottom, and combating every female crewman’s insatiable thirst. And the alien antagonist Phlox, whom we’re supposed to unwittingly forgive for his earlier scenes, is just a power-hungry fascist. There, I said it.

“Spirit Folk”: Caitlin One more substantial disagreement is that other comedy episode that we mentioned above since so much of the funny gags and jokes are just downright stupid. Everything is way too convenient, we miss all the opportunities to explore the rights of these holopeople, and, frankly, “Who Watches the Watchers?” did the premise better. But that was another episode that we disagreed on back in the day, so who even knows anymore? And we’ll never hear from this holoprogram again anyway! Ack!

“Fair Haven”: Ames, Jake But we’re not done shitting on Tom’s little Irish village just yet! Why literally everyone on the crew was SO into a simple open sandbox Ireland world in the holodeck was beyond us, for one thing, but the romance between Janeway and Sullivan was just as perplexing. We were stumped where the conflict in this episode was even coming from because the only way for it to work was to turn the captain into a lovelorn, giggling schoolgirl and that doesn’t make sense. Delete the episode.

“Good Shepherd”: Chris, Jake We loved the TNG episode “Lower Decks,” and this cobbled-together mess is no “Lower Decks.” The three minor characters are boring at best and utterly obnoxious at worst. When Janeway decides to take them under her wing, anyone watching can’t help but wish she just left them in the bowels of the ship where they belong. And making matters even worse, any chance any of them has to grow as a character is negated when Janeway practically single-handedly saves the day anyway!

“Barge of the Dead”: Ames, Caitlin, Chris Like with “Sacred Ground” which we disliked so much several seasons ago, any exploration of religious faith just doesn’t work on this show. So Gre’thor is just a real place you can consistently visit by having a near-death experience? That’s a thing that this show has now established, and I’m personally peeved off by it. And Torres, who doesn’t even believe in this stuff in the first place, is completely out of character all episode long! Today was NOT a good day to die.

“Fury”: Caitlin, Chris, Jake Another of our good friends who’s entirely out of character is Kes, who returns from a perfectly good farewell and shits all over “The Gift” for no good reason. It’s like the writers forgot what kind of person Kes was in order to make this episode work. We don’t get to know why she became so embittered and scornful, but someone just decided it was so and dragged poor Jennifer Lien in to act in “Gaslighting: The Episode.” Things were great for you, Jennifer, because we say so.

—

So who’s right and who’s wrong and how is it simultaneously everybody? That’s how middle of the road this season was. We’ll be back home on Earth in no time at all, so make sure you’re keeping up with us here and on the podcast over on SoundCloud or your favorite podcast app, hail us on Facebook and Twitter, and stay out of Fair Haven. It never ends well.

#star trek #star trek podcast #podcast #voyager #tinker tenor doctor spy #spirit folk #life line #one small step #child's play #pathfinder #memorial #blink of an eye #riddles #fair haven #good shepherd #barge of the dead #fury #top three #bottom three

[waitingforwinterwinds]

ASOS; Steel and Snow: 05 DAVOS I (pages 67-74)

After a long time surviving on a rocky spire in the ocean, Davos sees a ship head his way, he crams some PTSD and Religious Crisis into his survivors guilt-trip before they get close enough for him to call out.

-

Holy shit this chapter is short but potent. I normally make my commentary as I read, which means it takes... a while to get through each chapter, but this one grabbed me and took off running.

I don't know exactly what GRRM did, or if it's just because I adore Davos and there's been that lingering worry in the back of my mind since his last chapter, but I just didn't want to pause for observations.

Davos was a sailor; he was meant to die at sea. The gods beneath the waters have been waiting for me, he told himself. It's past time I went to them. ... Why should I live? he thought as tears blurred his vision. Gods be good, why? My sons are dead, Dale and Allard, Maric and Matthos, perhaps even Devan as well. How can a father outlive so many strong young sons? How would I go on? I am a hollow shell, the crab's died, there's nothing left inside. Don't they know that?

Davos did so amazing though, surviving on a tall spit of rock for... what, weeks? at least one week. Drinking rain water from hollows in the rock, eating smashed crabs raw, even when his mind was saying give up, he kept going.

Davos is clearly feeling a lot of guilt, for his sons dying, for not dying with them, and he's experiencing such dark and heavy headspace right now, that he keeps fighting, even if it doesn't seem like it, like he's just not dying, it's amazing.

I couldn't do it in his situation.

But now there was a sail; only a speck on the horizon, but growing larger. A ship where no ship should be. He knew where this rock lay, more or less; it was one of a series of sea monts that rose rom the floor of Blackwater Bay. The tallest of them jutted a hundred feet above the tide, and a dozen lesser monts stood thirty to sixty feet high. Sailors called them spears of the merling king, and knew that for every one that broke the surface, a dozen lurked treachorously just below it. Any captain with sense kept his course well away from them. Davos watched the sail swell through pale red-rimmed eyes, and tried to hear the sound of the wind caught in the canvas. She is coming this way.

You know, up until Davos recognized the ship as one of Salladhor Saan's, I was half expecting Melisandre to be on board and coming specifically to pick Davos up.

Just, partly because I just kind of thought she might, but also because this chapter has the reoccurring theme of the fire and what Davos has lost to it, and his part in Melisandre's "blasphemy" re: the burning of the effigies of the seven and rowing her into Storm's End for shadow baby birth.

Actually, going back to Davos's last chapter at the battle, I read a line about them intentionally leaving her behind because any victory they earned would be attributed to her and her magics and not Stannis, and my first thought was: "they're going to wish she'd come along" which was in poor taste, but also I don't know if Melisandre can actually command wildfire, never-mind that much of it.

But no, her hull was striped. She was Lysene, she was Sallador Saan's. The Mother sent her here, the Mother in her mercy. She had a task for him. Stannis lives, he knew then. I have a king still. And sons, I have other sons, and a wife loyal and loving. How could he have forgotten? The Mother was merciful indeed.

And this moment, where he remembers/realises that for all he lost he hasn't lost everything. It's like seeing the sun come out after storms and flood. Rekindled hope and a real will to live, not just the stubbornness and refusal to die.

Like, he's obviously going to have lasting trauma, my man need so much therapy, but him having things to live for, and people to support him is going to be so much of the effort.

Also:

When he opened his mouth to scream, the water came rushing in, tasting of salt, and Davos Seaworth knew that he was drowning. The next he knew the sun was up, and he lay upon a stony strand beneath a spire of naked stone, with the empty bay all around and a broken mast, a burned sail, and a swollen corpse beside him.

Davos is Azor Ahai confirmed... I should start a new game for how many people we can "realistically" confirm as Azor Ahai before the One True AA is revealed.

So here's what I'm thinking happened. Either:

A) The snag Davos felt earlier was some part of that debris pile (temporarily submerged by the currents and eddies of the river or maybe bonked down by the stuff on fire,) catching him and tugging him along and out to the spears while his was insensate, he actually managed to surface and flop onto the mast and get the water out of his lungs but he was too out of it to register it. (unlikely option, but sort of plausible)

B) The ocean and aquatic gods kicked him back out because they knew that Davos would easily become the king of all water gods if allowed to die at sea. (definitely what happened here. most likely option.)

#a storm of swords #steel and snow #a song of ice and fire #davos seaworth #a chapter a day reading #asos #asoiaf

[fragileoracle]

Ⅱ - Idle Hands & The Devil's Work

And that somebody was Birdie Summers.

"Then go on woman! Ain't nobody asking you to stay, you think you can find better go find it, I want no part of it, and I don't want to see your lily white ass crawling back when you can't find it ya hear?"

It was Mr. Elijah Howard shouting, only his tone was far more even and his expression more annoyed than upset. In a way, he always looked friendly, with dark eyes that seemed genuine and a smile so white it could blind you. For a lot of folks in Saint-Denis, he was the only man they trusted to pour their whisky. The real stuff from Scotland. He had a way about him, young and charismatic that made you wonder what the hell he was doing in Saint-Denis pouring drinks. If it weren't for the money that poured in through the front door every night at the Bastille. It was as if no other place in Lemoyne had a drop of liquor when the doors to the Bastille first opened.

"Oh, why thank you for your permission, Mr. Howard. I hope that ugly ole cow Fanny is enough to keep your poker table hot!"

That was Bernadette, known by the regulars as Birdie the Bastille Jewel. All golden blonde curls and eyes carved from blue ice, with skin unmarred by not a single freckle and a generous mouth purring promises that could walk a man off a cliff. Men simply fell over themselves for just a shred of Birdie's attention. Mercy had witnessed more than her fair share of duels for Birdie's "honor" and nearly twice as many angry wives asking for that "no-good blonde trollop". 

To say Mercy and Birdie didn't get along was a serious understatement. Where Birdie was a plucky, obnoxious, heavily perfumed pigeon without a lick of good sense Mercy was her foil. All dark and stormy with a knife for a tongue. In another life they could have made a perfect pair of criminals.

In this life the two women were a match made in the seventh ring of hell.

Seeing the woman all red-faced and angrier than a mule wasn't the worst way to start her work day. Mercy bit her tongue to stop from smirking as she approached, still failing somewhat as her eyes glittered with satisfaction. Mr. Howard was the first to walk off, leaving the two women at the entrance of the Bastille. The jobless Birdie having just realized she had an unwelcome witness to her tantrum, as if the whole of Saint-Denis hadn't heard her squawking.

With a look of unmasked disdain, Birdie placed a hand on her hip giving Mercy a once-over with those pallid blue eyes of hers.

"Speaking of ugly ole cows," She hissed while tossing a few of those golden curls over her shoulder, "Enjoy the show?"

"Naw, I've seen this one before. It's just as boring as the last time I saw it. You quit last week too, remember? It loses its novelty after the first couple-a-times, you know." Mercy responded with just as much venom while she crossed her arms, her unfriendly smirk more plain than before.

Birdie started to respond with another sharp one-liner no doubt, but Mercy wasn't having it. She held up a hand cutting her off while turning on her heel toward the door to the Bastille.

"That was rhetorical. Good luck finding new work, Miss Summers, maybe this time it'll stick." Feeling more than a little victorious, Mercy pushed open the door before letting it swing shut in Birdie's angry, red face. A string of expletives accompanied the fading angry clack of heels against cobblestone as Birdie stomped off.

Bernadette was a cruel, disrespectful bitch of a woman and Mercy was glad to see Mr. Howard treating her as such. It was about time he saw through her cheap façade and started giving her a taste of her own medicine. Even if she did tend to bring in more business than Remedy's meals or the other girls, it didn't give her any right to act as though she owned the damn place. Jewel of the Bastille or not, she was just another working girl with a head too big for her shoulders. This little game of chicken was sure to end in Birdie returning with an untouchable vengeance.

Still, the Bastille would get at least one peaceful night.

"Mercy? Why, I don't think I have ever seen you in the light of the morning sun." Elijah Howard drawled from behind his bar as she crossed the floor over to him, leaning against the counter with a grin.

"You ain't the only one." Mercy laughed, "I can always come back in the light of the moon so I don't confuse you," Mercy replied, propping herself up against the bar top with two fingers proffered.

"Oh no, you're here now and there's plenty-a work to be done." Elijah placed a cigarette between her fingers, striking a match and held it out to her as she placed the stick of tobacco between her lips and allowed him to light it for her. "Birdie won't be making it in today, so it's all hands on deck."

"I heard as much." Mercy made a face which Elijah did her the courtesy of ignoring, never much one for gossip. At least in terms of those he chose to employ at the Bastille. Business came first in every facet, a characteristic Mercy found admirable. Mr. Howard didn't fool around about money.

"Did you now, I suppose you come in right after me. Good, I can tell you directly then," Mr. Howard continued to clean the shot glasses before moving on to a set of mugs. "You'll be working the bathing room starting noon to midnight. Lara, Fanny, and Rosa are on the floor tonight."

So it was going to be one of those nights.

Taking a long drag of her cigarette, Mercy exhaled a cloud of smoke with a heavy sigh realizing she'd been doing her fair share of sighing as of late. Those little notes of discontent echoing the tug that just couldn't be satisfied.

Straightening up, Mercy took another drag of her cigarette. It wasn't as though she wasn't expecting to be reprimanded for the previous night, but a full twelve-hour shift of bathing every dirty body that came through the door? That was a new form of cruel and unusual, even from Elijah.

"So it got back to you, did it," Mercy grumbled, her mood souring once more as though she'd caught a whiff of Eau de Saint-Denis. "I was only defending myself."

It was true, at least in part. One of the wealthier regulars had decided that his winning poker hand wasn't enough to sate his deviancy, instead preferring a hand of flesh. Unfortunately for him, Mercy was in rare form and cracked him across the face with the back of her hand of flesh. The alarming sound of violence and the look of gob-smacked shock on his face was entirely too satisfying, but it quickly escalated ending in a couple of men dragging the offender out of the Bastille with him claiming assault. Of course, Mercy hadn't been too shy with a few colorful insults thrown at him like daggers on the way out making even a few of the men folk blush.

"I barely even left a mark on him, Elijah. Meanwhile, my rear end is going to be bruised for a week." Mercy griped, tapping the end of her cigarette into the ashtray. "Where's the justice in that?"

"Everything gets back to me, and I don't pay you to defend yourself. I pay you to smile and look pretty while my guests play poker and drink this Scottish hooch. If you want justice, go on 'head to the police station meanwhile, you keep that tongue in check, especially tonight. You get an easy shift, all suds and idle chit-chat. Nothing too difficult, right?" Mr. Howard looked at her expecting nothing less than a chipper response while holding out the ashtray.

"Of course Mr. Howard, all smiles and looking pretty." Mercy rolled her eyes, putting out the cigarette with a tight, ingenuine smile. "Anything for you, Mr. Howard."

"That's what I like to hear. Now go on to the kitchen and put those devilish hands of yours to work. Go on."

Remedy had been pleased as punch to put said devilish hands of Mercy's to work, and Mercy had been more than happy to listen to the stories of his life on the islands. She'd heard them all after just a year working at the saloon, but the man had a way of telling stories that each time he retold a tale she learned something new. It was almost as if he did it purposefully so his recounting always felt new and exciting. The two worked well together, well enough that Mercy figured if she was even a little more crude and a lot less pretty Elijah would've just kept her in the kitchen. Especially considering Remedy didn't like anybody the way he seemed to tolerate Mercy.

Mr. Remedy-Antoine Laguerre from the island of Vidriosa was a large man in every sense of the word. Tall and broad-shouldered, he cut an intimidating figure and was much more than simply a fat man. Remedy and Elijah had known each other for some time before the Bastille first opened its doors, and before he was a cook Remedy acted as something of a bouncer to the Saloon. Mercy had seen him act as such only one time before, and it had been the first time she'd ever seen a man's soul leave his body. Under all those layers were muscles tough as forged steel, and a strength that boggled the mind. Only the jagged, angry scar slashed across his proud, russet face told the story of the life he lived before he came to America. Where a warm smile danced in those dark eyes of his you could only guess at the ghosts of his past.

"Heya Mercy, you betta focus on that knife before you take off those pretty ol' fingers ah yours," the cook cut into her reverie as she finished chopping the various root vegetables for the evening's meal. There were two options for the night. Stew and a hearty lobster bisque, the latter being a new recipe Elijah asked Remedy to try his hand at. "we got enough meat foh the pot without em. What's that eatin' at you?"

"You ever been so restless it feels like your bones are going to run off without you?" Mercy asked quietly after a moment of thought, not meeting his gaze as he watched her with his eyes narrowed. Sometimes it felt that gaze of his looked right through her as though she were nothing more than a window.

"Your bones?" Remedy turned his attention back to the prime cut of beef under his knife, expertly slicing with the grain of the muscle. "Well if'n your bones start runnin' I 'spose you gonna start runnin' too, but I wonder now if'n it's your bones or your heart that be tryna run." He replied thoughtfully, still glancing down at her as he began rubbing his specialty mix of seasonings into the slabs of beef on his cutting board.

Mercy was quiet as she continued peeling another batch of potatoes, careful to leave a bit of peel as Remedy always requested. He let her be, humming a familiar little ditty as he pan-fried chunks of steak coated in a fragrant mixture of butter, salt, flour, and rosemary. The scent of which would soon be filling the entire ground floor of the saloon.

Remedy's words struck a nerve. It was her heart that wanted to run from Saint-Denis, reminding her of her life before the fire. Before she was pulled by the very roots and transplanted to a place she knew she had no chance of growing in. There was only routine here, and the feeling that she would die a saloon girl and nothing more rose in from her stomach like bile.

As the despair of her realization came to a head, Mercy's hands began to shake. The paring knife slipped between her trembling fingers into her palm while a thin sound she couldn't place rang over the din of sizzling meat and crackling fire of the woodstove. The phantom ring filled her head and her breath came too short. That traitorous heart of hers pounded against her rib cage as if it were a bird that meant to take flight altogether. All she could see in her mind was an unmarked grave, her body left to rot in the clay-ridden soil of the bayou

I can't die here, I won’t.

Mercy wasn't aware she'd caught the knife, still clinging to the blade until Remedy's large hands covered her own, forcing her to relax her bloody grip. The metallic sound of the knife hitting the floor shook her from the spell of hysterics as she found herself looking into Remedy's eyes. His face masked by an expression of concern.

Once the ringing stopped she took a shaky breath as her head swam. Her pounding heart was unconvinced, still rattling in her chest. All that was left were the familiar sounds of the kitchen and the rush of blood in her head as the fear subsided, and adrenaline pulsed through her in waves.

"It's your heart, ain't it?" Remedy asked, still holding her hands in his much larger palms, with her blood seeping through his fingers. Mercy couldn't help but feel both comforted and foolish as she bled into her friend's hands as if she were nothing more than a clumsy child.

"I don't want to die here, Remedy." Mercy's voice was small, and she hated how scared she sounded.

Furrowing his brow, she wasn't expecting him to laugh but in a way, it was exactly what she needed. Even if the great sound of it caused her a start. His eyes crinkled around the edges as he beamed while patting her wounded hand, the velveteen quality of his chuckles wrapping around her. Grounding her. Rooting her into the present and chasing away the sudden wave of despair.

"Mercy you ain't gon' die here, and neither am I. You ah fool and ah half girl, you got many years 'head ah you I tell you. Don't bring none ah that foolishness into this 'ere kitchen." Remedy chastised her, pulling a clean cotton rag from a shelf above the stove and wrapping it tightly around her hand, staunching the wound.

"Look ah you, paler than ah ghost. Sit down ova der, all that blood gonna have you feelin somethin faint and I don’t need you bleedin' like a pig on dinner. ‘Sides, I don't 'ave to be ah bettin' man to know you ain't ate a lick ah anythin'." Remedy frowned at her, urging her to a chair in the back of the kitchen sat next to an old wooden table covered with various bowls and empty liquor bottles.

"I have a peach," Mercy replied pathetically from her seat. And as if she were making a solid point she pulled the fruit from the pocket of her skirt and held it up as "proof".

"Oh do ya now, go on den. Sit der and eat it, ever' bite." Remedy shook his head and waved her off, "Gonna fry you up some eggs too, you damn fool. And quit ya worryin' ah death, you hearin' me?"

Maybe it had been the hours she'd gone without eating that morning, but Mercy liked to think it was the way Remedy had cooked the eggs. Mercy swore they were the finest fried eggs on bread she'd ever eaten in her life. Tasting faintly of steak fat and butter with the aftertaste of rosemary, Remedy had cracked the two eggs into the same pan he'd been cooking in. Along with the peach, she wolfed down the meal so quickly that she had to take a deep breath once she was done to keep from causing herself a case of indigestion. The sweetness of the peach was still on her tongue as she reclined in her seat feeling quite renewed, sighing with satisfaction.

Maybe it hadn't been her heart or bones or any of that nonsense at all. At least she'd convinced herself it'd been hunger.

The final hours of the afternoon idled by uneventfully as Mercy nursed her wounded hand, hiding in the kitchen from the other girls. First would be Fanny, followed by Rosa and Lara. Mercy was especially avoiding Loretta who would start hunting her down the minute she arrived.

Mercy was not looking forward to the invasive prodding and comments about displaying her "ample bosom" in the tightest corset in the armoire. And the rouge, God the rouge. More was more with Loretta, and no one could escape her brushes and pinching fingers.

Though there was the off-chance she'd go easier on Mercy since she was exiled to the bathing room all night, doubt said it wouldn't matter one way or the other. She was simply biding her last few hours of peace before the night began, and the fading sunlight told Mercy she was on borrowed time.

"Miss Graves! Why I never, what are you doing in here? Last I checked we never hired a scullery maid."

Speak of the Devil and she doth appear.

#chapter two #the fox and the stag #minor edit update

[earthtooz]

𝗛𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗦𝗖𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗟 𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗦𝗛!!!!!

↳ what it'd be like if the hq boys had a crush on you!

characters: kageyama tobio, semi eita, toru oikawa, miya osamu, kuroo tetsuro, akaashi keij, suna rintaro

warnings: fluff!! swearing here and there :) slight rivals to lovers in suna!

a/n: I WAS ABOUT TO NOT INCLUDE SUNA BUT MY WHORE INSTINCTS TOOK OVER THIS IS SO SHAMEFUL. thinkin about making a pt 2 with other characters but omg this took forever. hate to toot my own horn, but i kinda went off... (kags might be a bit ooc,,, but i think that's on me, not him </3)

poor, precious kageyama tobio who is so clueless in matters of love and how to 'woo' someone (that's the word his mother used when he asked), that he resorted to ask the members of the volleyball club.

the only useful advice kageyama tobio got was from sugawara, asahi and daichi, who told him to 'just be himself', because even though he's 'prickly on the edges', he's naturally a kind and reassuring person.

kageyama tobio who tries his best to spend as much time as possible with you, whether it be asking to tag along with you everywhere- to the school office, to the vending machines, to your locker, etc. it's the little moments that really count to him.

kageyama tobio who gets flustered whenever hinata, tanaka or nishinoya teases him about his little crush on you before telling them to 'shut up, idiot!' when they jokingly say 'man up and grow some balls!'

when you offer to study with him during exam season, kageyama tobio turns into a blushing mess, stammering over his words as he tries his best to get out a 'yes please, i would appreciate that a lot!'.

kageyama tobio, who you're still scared of a little sometimes because he's got that towering height to him and a stern appearance, but you're reminded of just how dorky and awkward he really is and it brings a smile to your face.

kageyama tobio, who's gone to the vending machine so many times with you that he knows your favourite drinks and snacks, listening to you muttering about which option you'd want. he buys it for you sometimes and he insists that he doesn't need repayment as he waves your complaints off by sipping on his carton of milk.

kageyama tobio knows your birthday and always makes an effort to bring it up whenever it's the week before to let you know that he remembers.

he saves any photos you have together because even kageyama tobio doesn't really enjoy looking at pictures of himself, it's worth saving it as his phone home screen because you're in it- and he won't change the home screen for months- years even.

kageyama tobio who is actually really funny and has a good sense of humour that he effortlessly makes you laugh.

you offer your headphones to kageyama tobio when he asks you what you're listening to, and he's so silent as well that you think he might secretly dislike your music taste until the next time he approaches you and asks to share earphones.

kageyama tobio, who doesn't realise you're at one of his games until you're running down from the stands and congratulating him, bringing him into a huge hug that makes him short circuit. 'this is nice' he thinks as he finally gets the hint from hinata to hug you back, the affectionate gesture of you making the effort to come and actually watch him play makes him feel warm, and he prays you can't feel how fast his heart is beating.

kageyama tobio, who ALMOST confessed to you on total accident, because he actually sent you a love song (that you've listened to many times before) and told you it reminds him of you.

you jokingly ask kageyama tobio whether if not he likes you or something, followed by an emoji so he knows you're kidding (because he's actually quite clueless about your sarcasm through text and needs indicators), and he almost falls off his bed.

kageyama tobio ACTUALLY confessing after one of his volleyball games, when he's still high on adrenaline and excitement over the victory that he can't help but tell you.

kageyama tobio who hears the cheers of his friends when you accept his date offer and doesn't even have the heart to tell the volleyball club members to 'shut the fuck up!' when you reach up to his cheek to place a kiss there.

semi eita, who's the sweetest boy you could possibly have a crush on, and if he liked you back? you've struck gold.

semi eita, who leans his ear down to hear you if the room is too loud, and if that doesn't work, he tells everyone else around him to 'shut up' so he can listen to you successfully.

semi eita, who huffs in amusement when you draw on his skin and you stop, thinking he doesn't like it, but he compliments the little smiley face you've drawn and you beam at him, your smile making him internally panic just a little. he draws a matching smiley face on your hand.

his features make his gaze look naturally intense and determined and he's aware of how this might scare some people, but with you, semi eita tries to look as gentle as possible, because he doesn't want to scare you off.

semi eita who shares his food with you, but rejects anyone else who tries to take some as well.

semi eita, who doesn't realise that he's doing this, but mentally makes a note of things that remind him of you. that bouquet outside the florist he just walked past? the colour scheme reminded him of you. the specific scent of a candle? he thinks you'd like it. an outfit he saw someone wear? he can hear you gush about it.

he's an incredible listener, but semi eita always has something to add to the conversation and it's easy to keep talking with him.

when he got your number, semi eita unconsciously added a heart emoji next to it before deleting it and mentally scolding himself.

semi eita, who freaked out when you laid your head on his shoulder on purpose since you were so tired, but as you went to sit back straight, semi smiled and told you you could take a nap on him if you wanted. now it was your turn to freak out as you mentally remembered his offer.

semi eita, who was relentlessly teased by tendou when you actually fell asleep on his shoulder next time.

after that, semi eita isn't as shy about physical contact- granted, he still asks for permission, but he'll take your hand in his without realising. first time he did so, you were incredibly flustered and when he notices that he's holding your hand, he also becomes incredibly flustered. it's a mess because you're both spluttering words, flushed in the face.

you've definitely compared hand sizes together and semi eita loves it so much that he just does it whenever, smirking at the difference.

gestures of affection occur naturally. it's common for semi eita to greet you with a welcoming hug when he sees you at the start of the day, you'll hold on to his shoulder to get his attention and he'll drape his arm over your shoulder when you're walking somewhere.

it's so natural, that when you and semi eita start dating, you immediately are comfortable with each other's bodies (not even in any suggestive way, you've just traced the lines on his palms so many times.)

semi eita has written songs about you before and only showed them to you when you started dating.

semi eita who makes you so effortlessly happy that you're bursting at the seems with love for him. you'd be happy to know that he feels the same way, wondering what good deed he did in a previous life to have you now.

oikawa tooru, who searches every room he enters, hoping that maybe you're in the same one. when he finds you, he yells your name in a cheery tone before jogging over to you.

oikawa tooru, who inserts himself into any situation that includes you. group project? he's already moving over to your desk before you could even look at your best friend. school trip? he's taking the seat beside you, end of story. pairing up with someone during physical education? oikawa's wandering towards you (even though you're intimidated by the man's athletic abilities.)

oikawa tooru, who seeks for your validation. you come to a few of his volleyball games per his request and feels his ego shoot up by miles when you tell him you're proud of him and that he's amazing.

you learnt how to make paper rings and taught oikawa tooru how to as well, and he gave his first one to you. you took it gratefully and handed him one of your more successful ones and he wore it around for the whole day. he keeps it on his desk now.

oikawa tooru, who could be swarmed by a group of fangirls, but when you walk past the school grounds talking with a bunch of friends, he's calling your name and breaking away so he can talk to you.

everyone can see how smitten oikawa tooru is for you, except you, and it frustrates everyone to no end.

oikawa tooru has been friendzoned 27 times by you, and counting.

"why would oikawa go for someone like me?" you would say to your friends, and it's a genuine question, because someone as dazzling and bold as oikawa tooru did not belong with you.

oikawa tooru, who overhears you and feels his heart drop.

oikawa tooru, who knows what it's like being insecure and uncomfortable in their own skin, comforting you when it matters most. he repeats what he wants people to say most to him, "you're incredible and that will never change, you're loved for a reason y/n and you're enough."

you're a little embarrassed that he caught you at a time of vulnerability, but oikawa tooru waves off your apology and tells you that he's always happy to help. he just hopes you'll stop burdening yourself with bottled up thoughts.

oikawa tooru, who hates losing you in a crowd, so he'll grab onto your shoulders like a conga line.

"i'm pretty, you're pretty, i think we would make a pretty good couple," oikawa tooru once told you. that got him a whack from iwaizumi and a harmless eye roll from you.

oikawa tooru, who shows off photos of you to his nephew and takeru has had enough of his uncle gushing endlessly.

oikawa tooru, when asked 'who's the prettiest person you know', says your name first without hesitation. he then adds on a pathetic "i'm still pretty amazing myself, but it's exhausting carrying these good looks all the time".

oikawa tooru, who squealed in delight when you finally agreed to go on a date with him.

miya osamu, who is one of the most caring people you've ever met.

miya osamu, who brings food just for you, even if he has to put up with atsumu's relentless teasing the night before as he prepares both their lunches. osamu shuts him up by saying 'i'll let ya starve tomorrow if ya don't shut the hell up'.

miya osamu, who carries your books for you if you don't have enough hands and follows you back to your locker if you forgot something for next period.

he faces the brunt of atsumu's teasing most of the time, but miya osamu never cracks, countering his twin's teasing by insulting him back- which most likely ends in fight. however, when you tease miya osamu, his face heats up and he stumbles over his words, but he doesn't really mind because he gets to hear your laughter.

miya osamu, who's competitive but especially when it comes to you AND he's jealous. if he overhears people talking about you, there's a good chance he'll stare them down in the hallways and scare them away- which is really effective with his 'the more intimidating miya' status.

miya osamu, who will give you piggy-back rides willingly. you know the thing where you'd jump at someone who is carrying things in both hands and see how they'd react? miya osamu would drop everything in his hands just to catch you, and he tries to get mad at you but can't because you're too busy sprinting away, giggling and laughing whilst osamu just looks at you hopelessly.

having a crush on miya osamu is easy because he knows how to charm someone and it's working on you.

miya osamu who is quite invested in self maintenance. you have regular discussions about haircare, skincare and even what makeup osamu should use. he's an introverted soul, so don't be surprised that miya osamu has a cleansing night where he spends it by himself, cooking up a new dish in a bathrobe whilst he waits to take off his face mask.

miya osamu, who is your best friend before he is your crush- and you never really know where you stand with him.

miya osamu, who sits in the library with you after school just to kill time. you swear you're going to study but that never really works, not when osamu keeps challenging you to games of 8ball on messages.

miya osamu is realistic and won't let unnecessary bullshit get the better of him, and he's the first person you go to when you need to be smacked down to earth. as you panic about an overdue assignment, he's the first to tell you that 'an overdue assignment by an hour is nothing, besides, you're probably not the first student that broke their laptop and lost everything. ya need to talk to the teacher- and stop panicking!'

miya osamu, who is not above throwing paper at the back of your head during class whenever the teacher is turned around. you've resorted to ignoring him which was a bad idea because he then proceeded to throw stationery.

miya osamu confessed in the way he knew best, through food as he prepared a bunch of your favourite sweets and left a note on top- a love letter if you will, but osamu was repulsed that you called it that, so you opt to just say he left you a note. it was definitely a love letter.

you begin to come over to the miya household on days when miya osamu wants to have his weekly cleanse and he shows you the products he uses.

miya osamu, who let you wear his volleyball uniform once and demanded for you to take it off before he actually let you keep it. maybe after high school he'll give it to you, but certainly not when he still needed it.

miya osamu, who regularly discusses his dreams and ambitions with you.

there was a place for you in miya osamu's future, right by his side as he was yours.

kuroo tetsuro, who declines any feelings he might have for you.

kuroo tetsuro, literal embodiment of 'i'll deny i have a crush on y/n, even though it's so painfully obvious'. kenma is so tired of his shit.

kuroo: what are you talking about? y/n is just a friend kenma: oh great, so that means i can set her up with someone else right? kuroo: ...

kuroo tetsuro, who's stupidly giddy every time he hears about you and his head turns around very quickly whenever he hears your voice. he's quick to give you all of his attention.

kuroo tetsuro, who buys food from the local 7/11 for you- especially when you forgot to have lunch or didn't have time to eat that day.

kuroo tetsuro, who will point out cats on the side of the road and you take a photo of them. it's got to the point where you have a whole album of cat pictures named 'pussy pics'. kuroo features in a few of them sometimes and you joke that he's a cat.

when you're cold, kuroo tetsuro is more than happy to offer you his blazer. he doesn't get cold, it's okay (that's what he tells you).

kuroo tetsuro, who's already thought about his future and what he'd like to do, and he can't imagine you not being in it- despite constantly denying that you're just a friend.

kuroo tetsuro, who tries to ignore the way your face falls when he friendzones you for the nth time.

kuroo tetsuro, who finally acknowledges his feelings for you when he overhears you being asked out by some other guy in his year. he wants to intercept and pull you away, but he can't really do that when he sees you smiling and accepting the date offer.

kuroo tetsuro, whose stomach drops every time he thinks about you going on a date with someone that's not him, and he's so very anxious for the day to come.

kuroo tetsuro, who's bitterly texting you and asking how it was when he opens your snap. kuroo tetsuro, who is over the moon when you tell him that 'it was okay, but i probably won't go on another date with him'.

kuroo tetsuro, who is courageous and daring, but can't seem to confess to you because every time he thinks about it, he chickens out.

you have matching friendship bracelets with kuroo tetsuro, and he wears it everywhere. during school, volleyball practice, when you hangout, even when he sleeps. it's just easier that way and he's not bothered to take it off just to forget to put it back on.

kuroo tetsuro, who loves taking mirror pictures with you and posting them on his stories. you look so cool in them, trust me, it's pinterest worthy. your most-liked photos on your feed are mirror photos with him.

kuroo tetsuro, who watches you play games with kenma, and when you're both too engrossed in the screen, he throws a volleyball at the back of your head to get your attention.

kuroo tetsuro, who could be the best boyfriend ever if either of you just stopped being scared to 'ruin' the friendship.

akaashi keiji, who really enjoys having you around and spending time with you.

akaashi keiji, who expresses love through the little things, like carrying things when you don't have a pocket or bag, remembering what kind of chapstick you use or willingly having your hair bands around his wrist.

akaashi keiji, who passes notes with you during class- surprisingly, because he's such a diligent student.

the love language between you two is basically books. it started when you left your copy of a novel to read for school with akaashi keiji, who offered to annotate it. when you got it back, there was a little 'he's my favourite character, he's so funny' written on the pages with an arrow to a certain name. you start adding on your own little comments to his books.

you leave little notes of encouragement in akaashi keiji's textbooks, and he smiles so widely every time he finds them. he keeps all of them too, not having the heart to throw them away.

akaashi keiji, who can be brutally honest that you let him know that you appreciate it when he is. you come to him for genuine advice and it always makes him feel validated when you listen intently and take in his words.

akaashi keiji, who you've actually had several conversations over fashion with, because even though he doesn't exactly have the best closet, you send him photos of outfits you think would look good on him.

and when he buys the appropriate clothes to build an outfit, you hype him up for it because what the fuck, why does akaashi keiji look so good in a turtle neck.

falling for akaashi keiji was so easy, easier than falling asleep, because he's always there for you and he's got this unassuming charm to him. the second you realised you'd began to slip, you simply just let it happen.

bokuto is a really sad third wheel, even whilst you two are just friends, but akaashi keiji can't help but pay attention to anything that's not you.

akaashi keiji, who goes to sleep at 11:30pm, but he's sure there's no harm staying up for another half hour just to talk to you.

sometimes, akaashi keiji writes poems for you... but he'll never let those see the light of day.

you're tempted sometimes to write a 'you're cute <3' when you annotate his books, but ultimately decide against it and go to draw a little heart instead.

the way your heart skipped many beats when you read 'do you wanna go out with me?' on the pages of your book. you confront him about it and he's so shy... but beams when you tell him that that it's a date.

going on bookdates is a MUST with akaashi keiji.

just wow, dating akaashi keiji would be the best thing to ever happen in life.

suna rintarou, who you actually kinda hate because of how annoying he is.

suna rintarou, who loves provoking you. tripping you over as you're walking out of class, messing up your hair just as you're about to speak to a teacher, smirking at you whilst you're in the middle of presenting something for class- you just hate him to put it simply.

you get back at suna rintarou for every time he messes with you and it's become a continuous back and forth.

he would be attractive with his aloof, uninterested vibe, and it's not like suna's a bad looker, he's just so annoying- but you could see yourself having a crush on suna rintarou. not like he'd want you to though.

suna rintarou's love language is bullying.

suna rintarou, who impresses you with his athletic abilities, but you have to mask your shock every time he hits one of his impressive volleyball spike.

you sometimes like to mock him whilst you're with friends, slouching and digging your hands into your pockets as you rant about the last thing he did to provoke you, unaware that suna rintarou and his perceptive eyes were watching you. he's amused though and walks away with a faint smile.

speaking of perceptive eyes, suna rintarou notices you almost everywhere. not just you but he only ever gives two thoughts about you, complimenting your outfit in his head before glancing away.

suna rintarou, who sees his chance when he notices you talking to osamu (who you share classes with).

he asks about you, trying to sound disinterested but osamu notices his bullshit right away. you're the same, asking about suna rintarou whilst pretending like you don't care. osamu tells atsumu this and the twins decide to take it into their own hands.

you don't know why miya atsumu has decided to talk to you, deciding that it was the cherry on top when suna rintarou approached and sat down next to his friend.

suna rintarou once responded to your story on instagram and you begin talking for hours without realising.

one day as you're walking to school with a cup of coffee in hand, miya atsumu notices and shoves suna rintarou in your direction a little too hard. he accidentally bumps into you and spills your drink.

suna rintarou is apologising profusely, feeling terrible that he did that but you shut him up by saying, "you can apologise by taking me out on a date". he's dumbstruck, but agrees.

suna rintarou begins to panic, because he wants this to be the best date of your life.

reblogs, feedback and likes are very appreciated!

HELP i'm EXHAUSTED AFTER THAT, so please please please reblog or just interact with this post because you don't understand how much it helps me out!! but that's only if you want to <3

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[rocorambles]

What Is Love?

Pairing: Gojo x reader (Main), Nanami x reader (Side)

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, NSFW, Dub-Con/Non-Con, Rape, Sacrilegious, God Complex and Delusional Gojo, Somnophilia, Slapping, Choking, Humiliation, Coercion, Non-Con Infidelity

Summary: Gojo learns what love is and unfortunately, you're the object of his newfound affection.

A/N: Thank you as always for beta-ing @sawamooora and dedicating this to my dear @lets-go-datehoe. Thank you for sending this request, Yuli~

Love? Gojo Satoru doesn’t believe in love. Love is for hopeless, lonely souls. Love is for miserable pathetic wretches desperate to fill an emptiness in their hearts, in their lives.

When everyone in the world is already falling head over heels to serve him, to be with him, when he's given everything he's ever wanted and more on a silver platter, why would he need love?

Gojo Satoru is already at the top of the world, with or without love.

Now lust? Gojo understands lust.

Carnal pleasure is never unwelcomed and unlike his elders, his head isn’t shoved so far up his ass to deny that he adores the feeling of his cock inside a slobbering mouth, a sopping wet cunt, an exquisitely tight ass.

But more than that, his arrogance and ego thrives and swells as women throw themselves at him, the feeling of being desired only fueling the prideful monster inside of him, only fueling his borderline delusion.

Of course everyone wants him. He’s Gojo Satoru after all.

And so he lets himself be worshipped, lets woman after woman praise him, reveling in the way they chant his name like a prayer as he returns their devotion with thick sticky white blessings. He smirks at the way they kneel before him, staring up at him in reverence, their pretty mouths and throats stretched wide across his cock.

Gojo Satoru is a god, and gods do not chase after mere mortals. So when he meets and you barely give him the time of day other than a polite bow, he shrugs his shoulders.

You’re just another disbeliever. Another silly lamb he needs to convert. Nothing more. Nothing less. Definitely nothing to get worked up about.

It’s almost amusing how you’re playing hard to get, sinning by spitting such crude and crass remarks at a deity like him every time he tries to speak to you. And it’s almost infuriating how you turn your nose up at him, as if you’re qualified to have an opinion of him, let alone think of him as beneath you. But he hides the pleased smile on his face when he sees your gaze linger just a tad too long to be mere coincidence the first time he reveals his eyes to you, a look of awe slipping past your scowling countenance.

See? They all come around eventually.

And so he lays it on thicker, draping his tall figure over yours, letting his warm breath grace the back of your neck, murmuring coy words in your ear. His long fingers find themselves tangling in your hair, brushing against your hands, touching every part of you as much as he can get away with.

You’re so close. He can feel your walls slowly crumbling away, can see the unsureness in your eyes as you half heartedly nudge him away after unconsciously leaning into his touch. Just a little more…

Except something, or rather someone, stops him.

Gojo Satoru isn’t usually caught off guard, especially not by the likes of Nanami Kento. The ex-salary man is a good man, but just a man nonetheless, no matter how you dress it up. But Gojo grudgingly admits at least surprise, if not something more, when he hears you’re in Tokyo and decides to pay your apartment a visit, only to find the Grade 1 sorcerer’s tongue shoved down your throat, your naked bodies entangled in rumpled bed sheets.

He tells himself it’s just a one night stand...maybe a friends with benefits relationship at most when he happens to catch both of you holding hands in broad daylight, a carefree smile he’s never seen before stretched across Nanami’s face as he sits at a cafe table with you, watching you happily munch on some pastry his underclassman has purchased for you.

Nothing he can’t handle.

But if you were a bitch before, a snarling ferocious wildcat whenever Gojo was around, you’re even worse now. Your apathy, the nonchalance with which you politely smile and nod in acknowledgement at Gojo before promptly ignoring him for the suited man by your side, gets under his skin like nothing ever has before. For once, Gojo is at a loss.

Ahh, so this is what denial feels like. This is the rejection and emptiness that he’s seen drive others to madness. This is love.

Gojo Satoru experiences his first heartache, but he doesn’t break down into pitiful sobs, he doesn’t mope around in self-pity.

He laughs.

He’s lost the battle, but he hasn’t lost the war. And when others would have turned tail and fled, he stands his ground, icy blue eyes sparkling in glee at the prospect of a new challenge, the prospect of his sweetest victory yet.

Gojo Satoru is a dangerous man. You know that with all your heart and soul, so it only makes sense that your hackles raise anytime he’s in your proximity. Maybe you take it too far, disrespecting your senior to an extent that would bring shame to you if it were anyone other than the Special Grade sorcerer. But in hindsight you’ll wish you did more.

You’ll wish you hadn’t caught the attention of the world’s strongest sorcerer. You’ll wish you hadn’t found yourself mesmerized by his sheer power, by those damning, dazzling eyes. You’ll wish you hadn’t begun to be ensnared by his allure, a trap you’ve heard the consequences of far too often from your heartbroken and weeping fellow female sorcerers. Maybe you’ll even wish you had just let him have a taste of you, use you before tossing you out like trash, like every other woman who’s fallen in bed with him, instead of whetting his appetite only to deny him of his feast, only to have him fixate on you even more.

But like Gojo, you know love and lust are two different things. And when Nanami shows up in your life, like a knight in shining armor, you feel Gojo’s spell on you shatter, your heart fluttering and thawing the ice that had begun to creep up your body, trapping you in endless blue.

Love is blinding, and really, you should have known that normal boundaries don’t exist in Gojo’s world. But your adoration for your lover has you hesitantly, but politely, letting the cheerful sorcerer into your shared home with Nanami — even though your boyfriend is overseas for a mission, not due back for at least another week.

It would be a lie to say you’re completely relaxed and fine with the circumstance you’re in, alone with Gojo Satoru with no chance of anyone being able to help you if something were to happen. But for whatever reason, Nanami respects the man, even considers him a friend, and in turn you feel an obligation of sorts to at least be cordial. And besides, Gojo isn’t a good man, but he’s not a bad man…right?

You find it difficult to believe that Gojo didn’t know Nanami was out of town, that his pout is sincere when you tell him that Nanami won’t be back anytime soon. There are only so many Grade 1 sorcerers in Tokyo and even less that Gojo actively keeps in touch with. But what’s the alternative? Believe Gojo came to see you? Unlikely.

Gojo is a womanizer, a slut, whatever other word you want to use. But a homewrecker? Especially of a dear friend? Never. (Frankly, you think it would just be too much of a bother for the emotionally stunted man.)

And you’re glad to see that your theories are proving to be true as the night continues, wondering if maybe the white-haired man is just lonely.

He’s strangely pleasant as he keeps a respectable distance from you, no suggestive comments spewing from his mouth, even his obnoxious arrogance kept to a tolerable low. You feel your guard drop, your smiles feeling more natural, genuine laughs slipping past your lips as he tells you about his latest adventures and missions.

But as a yawn interrupts your conversation and you stare askance at how late it is before urging him home to get some rest, apologizing for keeping him so long, your heart drops as you feel an overwhelming presence caging you against your living room couch, long limbs on either side of your body.

“What do you see in Nanami that you don’t see in me?”

The question is so jarring you almost forget the panic rising in your chest, mouth moving soundlessly as you try to process the meaning of his words. But instead of an answer, all that bubbles out of you is a shaky plea for him to leave.

Gojo’s never been good at following orders or commands. Why would he be? Since when has a god ever needed to listen to mortals? And you’re no exception.

You whimper as you’re suddenly transported to the bedroom you share with Nanami, struggling to no avail as Gojo easily tears your clothing off, positioning you on all fours in front of the floor-length mirror that decorates the corner of the room. Bile rises in your throat as he takes his blindfold off, blue eyes seemingly piercing your soul even through just a reflection and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to imagine you’re anywhere but here, with anyone other than him, trying to grasp at every fond memory you have of your blonde lover. But Gojo has a point to make and you gasp, eyes snapping wide open as a large hand wraps around your neck, choking you until you’re forced to stare at your joined bodies on the mirrored surface.

“Look at how perfect we are together. Look at how perfect you are underneath me. You chose that instead of this?”

You sob when he twists your head and forces you to look at a framed photograph on your vanity, a photo Nanami and you had taken together when he had brought you overseas with him for a mission.You regret not insisting that you go with him this time around, wishing more than anything else that you were wrapped in his strong arms.

There’s something irritating about your wailing and blubbering, your little hiccups and sniveling only fueling something dark and twisted inside of Gojo. Maybe it’s the way he knows that you’d never act like this if he was Nanami. Maybe it’s the way he knows you’re lust incarnate whenever Nanami has his hands or mouth on you. Maybe it’s the way he knows that you despise him and his touch so much, that you’d rather die than let him have you.

Ungrateful bitch.

Well if you’re going to cry, Gojo might as well give you something to cry about. A crazed grin slices his handsome face as your screams reach an all-time high, a frenzy, as he shoves his cock inside your unprepped hole, his shaft twitching in interest when you desperately wail his name over and over again as if that would do anything other than have him intensify his pace. But as pretty as his name sounds from your mouth, he tires of your useless pleas for him to stop. Gojo uses one hand to shove your face into the floor, your garbled cries muffled by the carpet as he chases his end, moaning at how perfect your tight, gummy walls feel around him. He’s dreamt of this for far too long and with a grunt, he cums inside of you, draping over your body and pressing his lips against the back of your neck, affectionately marking and tasting you as he empties his balls.

Through the pain and shame, relief floods through you, hope that this is finally all over, that he’ll leave you and your battered body alone. And you play dead, letting him do as he pleases, only occasionally wincing when he leaves a particularly intense mark on your skin, momentarily cringing when he pulls out, thick liquid trickling from your abused hole.

But you should have known better, should have known this was just the beginning.

You weakly paw at the strong arms easily cradling your exhausted figure, trying to wriggle as much as your aching body allows you to, sobbing into his shoulder when you see the direction you’re headed in. You wonder how it’s possible to feel even dirtier as calloused hands lather you with soapy suds, as Gojo takes his time scanning every inch of your body, intimately caressing and mapping every line and curve. And you plead for forgiveness from Nanami when slick begins to pool between your legs, as Gojo gently kneads and experiments with your breasts, rolling your nipples, long fingers expertly circling your clit and slipping inside of you.

Your orgasm shatters you and you stand there like a rag doll, body convulsing and eyes rolling back in your head as you drench Gojo’s digits with your arousal, the sticky strands of betrayal staining his hand as he brings it to your mouth. He gently peppers your neck and shoulder with encouraging kisses as you submissively suck him clean, tugging you along as he dries you off before tucking the both of you in bed, holding you in the mockery of a lover’s embrace. It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s chosen to sleep on Nanami’s side of the bed and shame has you curling into a fetal position, has you burying your face in the bedsheets, hoping for at least a whiff of Nanami’s familiar scent, a reminder of his presence.

It works, and you let yourself fall into a restless sleep, your lips twitching every so slightly upwards despite the tears still trapped in your lashes as you think of a tall blonde man, a yellow spotted tie wrapped around your hands as you teasingly pull a spectacled face in for a kiss. You writhe and twist in your sleep, heavily panting as you imagine Nanami’s hands roaming on your figure, his lips tenderly kissing a bold line down your neck and in between the valleys of your breasts. And as you imagine his fingers carefully rubbing your clit, you sigh his name, only to be abruptly woken as a lance of pain shreds through you.

Eyelids still heavy with sleep, body still groggy from being so suddenly roused, you can’t piece together what’s happening, one of your hands instinctively cupping your smarting cheek. But you frantically claw and bat in the dark, knowing exactly who’s on top of you despite the fact that your eyes haven’t fully adjusted to the blackness, the way your body is ripped apart once more, a telltale sign of whose cock is penetrating you.

“It’s very rude to say another man’s name when I’m the one making you feel so good. Let me teach you the only name you need to know."

There’s something horribly intimate about the position you two are in, the way he’s tainting the very sheets and mattress Nanami had made love to you on countless times. You wish you could force yourself back to sleep, could gouge out your eyes as you begin to make out the man pistoning in and out of you. But it’s no use and you know even sightless, those icy blue orbs are branded in your mind.

You vow to at least not give him the satisfaction of hearing his name from your mouth, pressing and biting your lips until a copper taste assaults your tastebuds. But Gojo has always been talented at everything he does, those gifted eyes seeing far more than they should. You shake your head side to side in denial as a knot quickly begins to form in your gut, body tensing as you feel another wave coming over you, only to let out a confused whimper when everything suddenly stops.

“You get to cum when you say my name and the magic word.”

The playful lilt and childish tone have you seeing red and you sneer in twisted pleasure when a gob of your spit hits him squarely in the face, a litany of curse words and insults spewing from deep inside of you, uncaring of how you’re more like a raving madwoman than a victim.

But you’re not the first brat Gojo’s had to tame, and he just smirks condescendingly down at you before playing you like an instrument, easily bringing you to that narrow brink where even a single breath of air, or a simple flick of a finger seems like it would have you toppling over the edge, only to relentlessly snatch you right back before you can fall.

You don’t know how long he goes on for, your shattered and denied mind barely cognizant of the beginnings of daylight creeping through the window. But as the rays of light make it to your bed, you break.

“Gojo-”

You howl when he pulls out, hips wantonly thrusting in the air for more friction as he crudely slaps his tip against your clit, a frown on his lips.

“That’s not the name I want to hear.”

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. Where’s your fucking backbone? How could you even entertain the idea of screaming another man’s name in your lover’s bed?

But when he steps away, your eyes zero in on how his cock separates from the sopping wet mess between your thighs, an unbidding distressed whine clawing up your throat at the thought of being left high and dry, mind hazy with lust and arousal.

“Sa-Satoru…Satoru, please.”

There’s work to be done and he’s not entirely pleased by the note of hesitancy and reluctance he still hears despite the hours he’s taken out of his time to educate you. But a promise is a promise and fuck if he doesn’t love the way his given name sounds in your mouth. And with just a few more meticulously placed thrusts and practiced twists of his fingers, you come undone, your lewd sex-crazed appearance and dopey smile from finally getting your sweet release dragging him down with you.

But it doesn’t end there and Gojo makes good use of your empty house, of the week he has alone with you.

There’s not a single surface in your home, not a single hole on your body that isn’t used and marked thoroughly. And even he briefly wonders if he’s being too rough with you, a flicker of concern crossing his mind as he pouts at the idea of his new toy breaking so soon.

But you prove your resilience and a strange concoction of pride and irritation festers inside of him as you determinedly clamp your mouth shut, a spark of defiance lighting up those lust-clouded eyes whenever he urges you to say you love him back, despite the way you practically ride and hump his face as he kneels between your legs and eats you out in the kitchen, despite the way you slur and babble his name over and over again like it’s the only thing you know how to say.

You’re adorable and he wishes he had all the time in the world to break you fully without using his trump card, to see just how durable you really are. But time is ticking and Nanami is due back any day now.

“Say you love me.”

He coaxes you by gently holding you in his arms, peppering your face with butterfly kisses, endearingly observing the way you seek the little comfort you can get despite the fact that he’s the giver, so deprived of anything other than frenzied arousal. But steely resolve hardens your eyes and you turn your face away.

“I love Nanami.”

You brace yourself for a cock slamming inside of you, a hand wrapped around your throat, but you aren’t ready for the endless galaxy that suddenly surrounds you, and blood-curling fear washes over you.

Unlimited Void.

You’d have to be living under a rock not to know of it, and yet, seeing it in person, you can safely say the rumors and tales don’t do it justice. Gojo laughs at how you frantically cling onto him, your arms wrapping around him, your face burying itself into his chest, voice trembling as you beg him to release you, beg him to get rid of his domain expansion, beg him not to let you go. You’ve seen the aftermaths of his technique, seen curses and sorcerers much stronger than yourself reduced to brain-dead husks from mere seconds in his domain.

“Say you love me.”

The words are on the tip of your tongue, fear making you docile. But a flash of blonde, a glimpse of a tailored suit in your mind keeps your saving grace stuck in your throat. You tell yourself it’s okay, you don’t mean it, it’s just a means to save yourself, surely Nanami will understand. And you begin to open your mouth, only to break off in a scream as you’re roughly shoved away, your hesitation speaking volumes to the white-haired sorcerer who sighs in irritation.

Not that you really notice or maybe you notice too well. You aren’t sure. You are sure. You can feel your sanity rapidly slipping as everything and nothing slams into your senses at once.

“Satoru, I love you!!”

It’s barely comprehensible, a shrieked frantic wail muddied by anxiety. But it’s enough and you sob in relief when Gojo ruffles your hair like you’re a well-behaved pet, leaning into his touch and digging your nails into his wrist, keeping his contact on you still and steady, dry heaving as you come back to your senses.

You don’t even realize that the repeated mantra is still coming out of your own mouth as you fling yourself onto the sorcerer as his artificial universe fades away, curling up in his lap, heart pounding as you chant “I love you, I love you, I love you” over and over again like it’s your holy scripture.

Gojo is on cloud nine watching you finally come to faith, finally worship him and praise him. You were lost, and now you’re found. And he has no intentions of ever letting you stray again. It’s not like there’s anywhere else for you to go, anything else for you to do other than warm his cock anyway.

He crashes his lips against yours as he easily slips inside your well-used cunt, walls molded and shaped perfectly after countless rounds. It’s sinful how good you feel, how good you sound, and he can feel his balls tighten, his own end quickly approaching as you shatter to pieces over and over again around him, quivering walls milking him, clamping down on him as if you can’t bear the thought of being empty.

But there’s nothing to worry about. What god would leave his faithful disciple unrewarded? What declaration of faith comes without a baptism? And he cums inside of you, hot spurts filling you up, branding you, marking and claiming you as his, the sticky white trails leaking out of your stuffed cunt a public declaration of who you belong to.

There’s silence as he lets you collapse on top of him, grinning at how blissfully fucked out you look, cock already twitching in interest again as he spies the mess of tears and drool dripping down your chin. But there are matters of business to attend to first and he nudges you to look at him, cooing down at vacant eyes still hazy with pleasure.

“Nanami is returning tomorrow-”

Blinding pain shocks you as a large hand tangles with your roots, pulling your head back so far you think your neck might snap.

“What are you so happy about?”

There’s a lightness to his question, the silence before the storm, and you wipe the smile off your face, hissing as he tugs harder.

“I know you like me more, but I didn’t think you would be heartless enough to be so excited about breaking up with your boyfriend. Poor Nanami.”

Even through the pain, the unspoken weight of his words registers in your head and you snarl at him with a vengeance.

“I’m not breaking up with-”

Your throat goes dry as he relinquishes his hold on you, one hand raising to eye-level, pointer and middle fingers beginning to cross, and you go still, mouth snapping shut.

“Good girl. Now you’ve experienced Unlimited Void for yourself. What do you think would happen to Nanami if I left him in there for even a second? Do you think he’d ever be the same even if he were to somehow survive, even if he were to go through months of rehabilitation?”

The inquisitive tone makes it sound like just a bunch of theoretical questions, but you know better, know the ramble for the threat that it is.

Love is about sacrifice, and you’re willing to give it all up for the man whose contact Gojo is pulling up on your phone, whose number is being called. And as the ringtones finally stop and a familiar voice greets you over the speaker, you seal your fate.

#yandere jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere gojo #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #gojo smut #tw: noncon #tw: rape #tw: somnophilia #tw: yandere